


A Marked Deck

by betagyre



Series: Choosing Grey [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1950s, 1960s, Alternate Fictional History, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Childbirth, Cold War, Corruption, F/M, Family, Manipulation, Married Couple, Minister for Magic Tom Riddle, Ministry of Magic, Parenthood, Politics, Power Couple, Sexual Content, Wizarding Politics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2018-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-04 02:45:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 33
Words: 176,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6638233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betagyre/pseuds/betagyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Minister for Magic Tom Riddle has a family and a position of immense political power, and he must adapt to the responsibility that comes with both. But Hermione has much to adjust to as well, married to someone who is still very much a power-hungry Dark wizard. Follows <i>Choosing Grey</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Unfunny Jokes

**Author's Note:**

> Well, here we are! This work will be a collection of one-shots (and two-shots, and so on... short pieces, at any rate) that all occur in the AU of my Tomione fic _Choosing Grey_. Most of them assume some prior knowledge of what happens in that story and may make reference to things that occur in it. They will all take place after the events of that story, though they probably won't be in chronological order in _this_ work. I'll identify a time, either precise or relative to some other piece, when each one takes place. The list of tags will grow as I add new pieces, and the rating may increase as well.
> 
> I know that in my end notes for that story, I said I preferred to leave it open. I do have my own headcanon (if that's the correct term for this :P), of course, but since I am putting this up against my expressed word, I don't insist that readers accept all, or even any, of these as their own headcanon. Don't like something? It doesn't have to be "official" for you.
> 
> I don't know exactly how often I will update this, since it is a collection of mostly self-contained pieces rather than an ongoing story with a distinct plot. I'll try to make updates reasonable, though.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While cleaning out a building, Hermione and Tom encounter a pair of unpleasant surprises.

_December 1946._

The house was a pigsty.

It was not the lovely, elegant row house that Hermione and Tom owned and lived in. _That_ house had been meticulously cared for, and they had not had to do very much work to prepare it before they moved in. That house had also been owned by Muggles, so it had no magical problems—or visitors—to deal with when they bought it.

No, this house was a former magical residence. The family that had owned it had moved to the Godric’s Hollow wizarding neighborhood because of the Muggle war, and in the space of a mere five years, a plethora of magical pests had infested it. Hermione had bought it for a deeply discounted price, and she was going to strip it down and turn it into library, office, and laboratory space for her organization, but it had to be cleaned out first.

 _It’s nice to be the breadwinner,_ Hermione thought as she blasted away a cache of dead doxy eggs—denatured, decomposing, and therefore unfortunately useless as a potions ingredient. _This has worked out pretty well: Tom has the highly visible Ministry job, but the amount of money I’ve raised dwarfs his salary. He seems all right with it, too. Though I suppose even in his alternate life, he didn’t care that much about wealth._

Over the last year and a half, they had hashed out a system that worked for them. It was counterproductive for them to keep each other in the dark about what was happening, policy-wise, in their work, but Tom did not give Hermione the gory details of whatever manipulations he got up to in the Ministry and she did not ask. Her unspoken rule for him was to not murder or torture anyone and to be _very careful_ with any other magic he felt compelled to use to get his way. It wasn’t _that_ damned much to ask, considering what he had forced her to watch him do not quite two years ago—and figuratively hold her nose about thereafter.

 _He had it open again. Her heart gave an unpleasant thump at the sight. A serene, satisfied look gracing his handsome face, he lifted a gleaming strand of memory from his head and dropped it over the blank pages of the diary. It had perhaps saved her life, had definitely saved his, and it was a part of him, so she did have regard and affection for what lived in it. But the thing itself was still a permanent reminder of who, or_ what, _her husband was and what_ she _had become for him—and for the greater good. She winced, looked away, and as unobtrusively as she could, slipped the flask of Calming Draught–infused firewhisky out of her pocket. One sip would suffice._

Hermione had a dark suspicion that Tom sometimes used Imperius, Confundus, and Memory Charms on colleagues to push them into doing what he wanted, but she couldn’t prove it and didn’t really want to have it confirmed. What was the point in knowing about something like that? He wasn’t puppeting anyone permanently, at least, and he knew that she didn’t want to hear the more sordid details of whatever he did to get his way as Deputy Advisor to the Head of Magical Law Enforcement. A small part of her would have been content to play the mafia wife, to not to know anything _at all_ about his “business,” and for the intellectual part of their relationship to be based strictly on their mutual interests in advanced magic and culture. But that wasn’t who the rest of her was at all. They were both deeply interested in politics, and the idea of suppressing that around him was stupid and offensive to the greater part of her. Unworkable, too, because in a very real sense, they _were_ colleagues. Her organization, her donors, needed to know what was going on in the upper echelons of the Ministry, and he wanted to know what ideas her think tank had come up with recently.

What they did worked, at any rate. Marital strife was minimal—and easily dispelled by the _other,_ physical aspect of their relationship. It was not what she had expected, going into this, and it was a pleasant outcome.

He stood up. “I’m going to tackle that box room upstairs,” he said.

She snorted, standing up. “Good luck with that. It’s a disaster.”

“It is, but it has to be done eventually. Might as well be now.” He passed by her and squeezed her shoulder affectionately.

He cared about her. There was _no_ question about that. It was a different sort of caring, a darker and far more possessive one, but one tough lesson that Hermione had been forced to swallow was that love was not always pure angelic lightness. In fact, it very rarely—if ever—was that.

Hermione finished tidying up the room and gazed around. It was empty but clean, at last. Time to move on to the _other_ room that she had been avoiding: the library. At least, what had once been a library. There were no books anymore, or she certainly wouldn’t have avoided it.

* * *

Tom stood in the middle of the dirty box room. It was filthy. Splinters lurked on the edges of the old wooden door frames, ready to tear anything that brushed them. Dust lay everywhere in the room. If he had been wearing any of the elegant, tailored, expensive suits and robes he usually wore these days, he would have been so angry that he probably would have blasted the very walls with Dark curses just as payback. But he and Hermione had come into this place prepared for a mess, and that was exactly what they had found. Tattered drapes hung from tall, dusty windows. A clutter of broken and half-broken magical objects dotted the wood floor, creating a hazard for the unwary to walk upon. A battered old closet awaited, hiding Merlin knew what inside.

It was probably best to deal with the closet first. He could see pretty well what the main room offered. But if something were lurking in that closet, then it could burst out and undo any work that he did in the outside room. He strode across the room, readied his wand, and opened the door.

His eyes adjusted to the dimmer light at once. He glanced down and scowled: There was another floor that was covered with rubbish. It was embarrassing in a deep-seated, visceral way that _wizards_ could abandon a place and leave it in this condition. Muggles at least had the excuse that they couldn’t do magic. What excuse did wizards have? Lazy, slovenly, or simply magically incompetent, none of those things earned _his_ sympathy. He bent down to examine the trash for anything valuable, just in case. It seemed to be just a layer of paper and parchment, broken quills, broken glass….

A puddle of fresh red liquid seeped out from under the rubbish. _Great,_ Tom thought in annoyance. It was probably just potion, but if it were blood—well, this was exactly the sort of place that one might try to hide a body, and it would just be _too_ ironic if he had to deal with paperwork and perfunctory questioning over a murder that _he hadn’t even committed._ He shifted the trash aside to see what he was dealing with.

It was a body. His heart almost stopped as it came into sight. The face was dead white, and a truly horrific wound sliced through the neck. The head had been almost sawed off. Dust tinged the curly locks with grey—at least, where they had not become sticky with blood.

Tom moved more of the rubbish aside. The facial features came into view. The eye sockets were empty, and more blood oozed from below them. It looked like they had been gouged out. But much worse than that was—

 _No,_ he thought, his heart pounding. _It can’t be. It literally can’t be. I was just with her._

He turned the body onto its back, and the dead, mutilated face of Hermione stared back at him—or would have done.

_It can’t it can’t it can’t—_

_Wizarding house infested with pests. Dark closet. It must be—_

_But it should be_ my _corpse that I see, shouldn’t it? It always has been before…._

Tom stood up shakily and directed his wand at the thing on the floor. He supposed it made sense that the form of a boggart would have changed for him. He was protected now, after all, and Hermione was not.

He tried to think of something, but—and it was so humiliating—he had never been able to master this spell. It was one of a minutely few Defense spells that he had been unable to do. He remembered that awful day in third-year Defense, the first time. After seeing classmates banish vampires, banshees, flocks of doxies, and the like—stupid, childish, superficial fears to suit childish, superficial people, people who _did not understand_ —then _he,_ the magical genius of Slytherin, the young orphan of unknown pedigree and blood status that the house grudgingly had to respect due to his power—

There was simply nothing funny about his fears. Not his own dead body, and not the body of the one person in the world he loved. It _wasn’t funny._ There was no way to make it funny.

The horror that Tom had been feeling transformed to anger. _Riddikulus,_ indeed. How _ridiculous_ of smug Defense educators, and whatever placid, self-satisfied fool had invented that spell, to imagine that fears were always going to be like monsters under the bed for a three-year-old. That they were always going to be something that could be made _amusing_ by dressing it up in funny clothes. _Laugh at your fears! There’s no reason to be scared of anything your mind might think of! Your fears aren’t serious. No matter what you’re most afraid of, it really only deserves to be made light of and laughed at._ That was the subtext of the whole procedure, and it was a fucking platitude. Stupid, offensive, patronizing—

Thoroughly enraged by now, Tom directed his wand at the boggart that disgracefully borrowed _his_ Hermione’s form. What right had it to do that, to violate _his mind_ and then throw _her body_ back in his face, mutilated and abused like this? How _dare_ it.

Unable to cast Riddikulus on his old boggart, laughed at in Defense—his best subject—for failing to do something that everyone else could do, Tom had taken to the library with a vengeance, determined never to let any old boggart cripple him like that ever again. There he had learned of another way to deal with them, a way that the sanctimonious Hogwarts faculty would not have wanted the students to use. Not because a Dark creature had rights, but presumably because it would corrupt their innocent souls.

Clearly, his had never been innocent.

Tom swiped his wand harshly through the air, casting a shockingly Dark curse, and a fountain of blood and flesh erupted from the floor as the creature was shredded.

Another swipe, and a small explosion rocked the third floor as the bits of killed boggart were consumed by fire.

A final swipe, and the ashes disappeared.

Tom sank to the floor and put his hands over his face. The anger vanished at once now that the offensive thing stealing and defiling Hermione’s form was gone. In its place was the gut-wrenching visceral horror that he had felt at first. His rage was just masking that, it seemed.

It was just a stupid boggart. It shouldn’t do this to him.

He closed his eyes. No. It _should_ do this to him. He was right to be afraid of this. It was something that could actually happen—indeed, _would_ happen eventually if nothing ever changed. Maybe not this specific form of it—no, it _wouldn’t_ be this form of it, not ever—he would _never_ let that happen to her—but it would happen in some form. Hermione, with her… _different…_ code of morality, had still refused to take the precaution he had. She didn’t even like him bringing up the topic.

It hurt. It hurt so much. Tom had accepted for two years that he could be hurt in this relationship, so the initial anger at _that_ little discovery had long passed, but that had not made it any easier. She _knew_ what she was condemning him to someday with her choice. He knew that it wasn’t out of malice, but still…. He preferred not to think too much about what would happen someday if she persisted with her refusal. The thought of not having her—

His heart thudded in dread again.

 _There’s the ring,_ he thought at once. He fingered the stone on his hand, feeling the contours of the symbol that had been etched into it. He wouldn’t ever _really_ lose her. It was good that he had gone to Grindelwald; otherwise he might not have ever learned what the ring did.

But it wouldn’t be the same.

* * *

To Hermione, empty, dusty bookshelves were sad. Not as sad as moldering books, but they still spoke to an abandoned library. A place where learning had once taken place but did not anymore.

The previous occupants had left an oval side table overturned in a corner. Hermione flicked her wand at it, sending it flying upright. She walked over to examine it. There didn’t appear to be anything wrong with it; it was nice, maybe from about 1910 or so, and would be perfectly serviceable once dusted and polished. She might even bring it home with her. What had happened to the magical family that had lived here? They had moved to the country, to Godric’s Hollow, but why had they left their house in such a state? It was a puzzle. Hermione knew that she could find them in their new home and ask them, if she were so inclined, but it would only be to sate her own curiosity. She would leave them be, of course. But she had bought this house and everything in it, so whatever they had left behind, for whatever reason, was now hers.

There was also a large cabinet in one corner. It was as tall as the bookshelves, but it had doors that closed, concealing whatever was inside. Hermione could not tell if it was a detachable piece of furniture or was carpentered into the house. Well, she needed to see whatever was in it. She passed through the room, holding her robes up to avoid catching too much dust on the edges. She reached the cabinet and opened the doors.

It was definitely a magical object. Natural light had to reach inside it, or would have, at least, but the entire interior was pitch black and impenetrable. Hermione readied her wand. That would not have been done except to conceal something.

A figure seemingly came into being from thin air, not visible until it stepped outside the cabinet into the light. It faced Hermione and smiled.

Hermione stumbled backward. Her eyes widened in shock.

It was Tom, but not. He still had a head full of thick, silky black hair, but his skin was chalk white and somewhat… _melted_. His facial features were no longer handsome. His eyes were blood red now, and black robes that seemed as impenetrable as the darkness of the cabinet trailed behind him.

“Hello, Hermione,” the thing said, thin lips curling over teeth.

Hermione pointed her wand at it. _It’s not actually Tom,_ she thought. _This is a dark enclosed cabinet in a house that hasn’t been maintained in years. It’s obvious what it is. Not exactly what I expected… but it is a representation of failure. It makes sense._

The Boggart-Tom—or Boggart-Voldemort, she thought—strode forward. It fingered a badge on its robes that Hermione had not noticed before, one with the imposing logo of the Ministry of Magic. A gold object dangling from its neck slipped through the robes. Hermione’s breath caught in her chest at that sight.

Boggart-Voldemort turned around and faced her, a cruel smile on its face. “You always were a self-deluded idealist, Mudblood.”

“Shut up,” she said. Her wand hand shook.

“You _were_ useful, though,” the thing said. “You helped me. I would have failed without you. You showed me that, after all.” It grinned harshly at her.

“I’m not bandying words with a boggart,” Hermione said, trying to inject firmness into her voice. She lifted her wand.

How could she make _this_ amusing? There was just nothing funny about it. That was the inherent problem with the theory for the boggart-banishing spell. If your greatest fear was a giant spider, like Ron’s had been, you could make that entertaining. If your greatest fear was a dementor, like Harry’s, or being a failure, like hers—

“Lord Voldemort does reward those— _aahh!”_ The thing’s voice tapered off to a high-pitched squeal, the voice of a toddler.

Hermione forced out a chuckle, but it had no effect.

The thing before her scowled and drew a wand threateningly.

She tried again, casting the spell nonverbally. The wand turned into a rubber chicken. Hermione smiled, this one not forced, but then—

_Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes._

The smile fled her face. Boggart-Voldemort stepped forward again.

She tried one last time. The void-black robes on the thing vanished, revealing an emaciated form. Countable ribs, deathly white legs with hardly any muscle, and a pair of emerald green boxers bearing Slytherin’s serpentine mark over a very specific place.

_“You must be joking,” she said, staring at him in bed._

_He looked insulted for a moment. “You really think it’s that stupid?”_

_“Erm, yes. It’s like wearing boxers of your favorite Quidditch team, but worse.”_

_“And is that something you know about?” A flash of anger and jealousy filled his words._

_“Not for the reason you’re worried about,” she said, smirking. “One of my best friends had five brothers, some of whom were slobs. I saw plenty of laundry. And if you actually charm them to look like that, I will laugh all night. Honestly, Tom. You have taste. Just don’t.”_

Hermione laughed nastily. “You look even more _ridiculous_ than I thought you would.”

The thing stumbled back, trying to cover its crotch.

“It must be what you did to your body,” she mocked, though it pained her to do so. “If _Tom_ wore them, it would just be ridiculous in a narcissistic way. You, on the other hand… you’re a complete caricature.” She stared at Boggart-Voldemort, who cowered in shame now, and laughed a harsh, brutal, cruel laugh. The thing vaporized in a puff of smoke.

Hermione sank to the floor and sighed. This shouldn’t bother her so much. _–No, it should,_ she corrected herself at once. The only type of humor that worked on this fear was vicious, mocking, mean-spirited ridicule of physical appearance—and a form concocted from an actual memory that involved _her_ Tom. It had been a humorous memory… a bit of levity in their lives… and now it was tainted by this. There would be something wrong with her if that didn’t disturb her.

Also, the fact that her “failure fear” now assumed this form was unsettling in its own right. That thing was not just her fear—the fear that she would fail herself, fail Tom, fail all the loved ones who would not know her now but whom she still wanted to give better lives than they’d otherwise have—but it was also a little part of her conscience that periodically spoke up. It would whisper to her, _You’re not actually stopping him from being evil. You’re just allowing a smaller amount of evil to happen._

She had not thought of Tom and Voldemort as the same person since early autumn of 1944….

 _No,_ she thought quickly, _that’s not really true; there was a brief time after he made the Horcrux that I thought of him as Voldemort, but since then, no._

And yet… no, she corrected herself again, they weren’t the same. Tom, _her_ Tom, had diverged from Voldemort when she got to know him. He had made different choices.

 _Some of them weren’t that different, and you realize that,_ that voice in her head whispered. _Why do you drink that concoction every time you see him putting memories in his diary, and why do you insist on not knowing what he does to coerce and manipulate people?_

_They were still different. One is better than six—or seven—and coercing people is better than killing them. I have control over this. He has already seen that outcome in my old memories and he revolted against it. It won’t happen this time. He listens to me, he respects me, and… if nothing else, his determination not to lose me will override other impulses._

* * *

Somewhat later, Tom emerged from the upstairs room and entered the library. He stared at Hermione, who was busy cleaning and polishing the bookshelves, with wide eyes. He stood in place, unable to go any further.

She caught a glimpse of him out the corner of one eye. She turned her head. A peculiar look filled her face, a look of… _shame,_ Tom realized.

“Is everything all right?” he asked.

She looked away, facing the bookshelves again, and nodded. “There was a boggart in that cabinet”—she gestured at it—“but I took care of it.”

“Really.”

Hermione nodded, not looking at him. “That—the form it took—bothered me. I’m sure you think that’s silly,” she said, managing a brittle laugh.

He moved across the room to stand next to her and put his hands on top of hers. “I don’t,” he said abruptly. “There was one in the box room too. Its form… was a surprise to me. A bad one.”

Compassion suddenly flooded Hermione. She realized in a flash what he must have seen. The thought was disturbing to her in one way, but at the same time….

_He won’t become that. Not if what he fears most has changed as I think it has._

She freed her hands, turned to face him, and wrapped her arms around him. He was clearly taken by surprise, but he nonetheless cradled her head on his shoulders with an awkward return hug.

After about a minute, Hermione broke the embrace. His arms lingered on her back. He looked at her, meeting her eyes with his own, willing her to understand, _No. Not yet._

She drew close again.


	2. Toddler in a Marathon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione needs empathy, and Tom never learned about that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These notes aren’t specific to this piece, but are general. I just wanted to make it clear, I don’t intend to post anything that would answer all of the questions raised in _Choosing Grey_ , especially “did this actually make the future better” and “what are Hermione and Tom's ultimate fates.” I do want to leave those questions open.

The night was crystal clear, the wind was calm, and the pair could muffle sounds and simulate different weather in their windows even if it had not been the case.

The problem was that the weather was not why Hermione was still awake at three in the morning.

She gazed across the dark bedroom, her eyes well-adjusted to the near-absence of light. The black cat, a part-kneazle, that Tom had brought home for her that day was curled up in a chair.

_“Thank you!” she exclaimed, cuddling the purring Sable, shocked at the unexpected gift—for this gift spoke of more personal consideration than his regular presents of jewelry and elegant clothing, even more so than his gifts of books. Strangely enough, of all the people and things she could have missed, lately she had been missing Crookshanks. Tom had listened._

_Sable instantly set eyes upon the patterned brown grass snake that Tom kept around._

_“The snake has to be put up,” Hermione declared._

_Tom held out a hand and hissed to the snake, which promptly coiled defensively around his arm. “This snake can’t hurt the cat,” he said. “The cat could easily kill my snake, though.”_

_“Then I don’t want that to happen either. It needs to go in a tank.”_

_Tom did not argue. He smiled briefly at the cat before heading to his study to Transfigure something into a terrarium._

Hermione sighed. Sable had already bonded with her, as kneazle-mixes were known to do. She still missed her old life. _Why now?_ she wondered. _I’ve been here for two years. Why just now? And… what is wrong with me that I didn’t have this until now?_ The guilt pricked at her conscience.

Her all-too-awake brain instantly answered the question for her. _It’s because my life is finally settled. For the first several months, I was a target of the Blacks, I had to deal with the interest of Gellert Grindelwald at one point, I was worried and fearful, I had several shocks to my system in my relationship with Tom, and now… my life is peaceful and routine again. That’s why. It wasn’t my fault; I just didn’t have a good opportunity until now._

Her thoughts finally, blessedly, began to drift.

Alone, she could have tossed in the bed all night, but now she could not squirm too much. Tom had fallen asleep pressed against her side, with one arm gripping her around the waist. He usually slept that way, and there was something about it—about the implicit neediness of such a position—that she found irresistible. It was so unusual for him to show vulnerability.

Tom, she had learned some time ago, had a mild phobia about sleep. He specifically did not like dreamless sleep. It bothered him to have periods of total unconsciousness. It was associated with his terror of death, she knew, but also his fear of helplessness.

He had finally opened up to her about what had started these fears for him. It was not, as she had once thought, the knowledge that his mother had died in childbirth. He had never known her. In 1931, influenza had struck the orphanage, and numerous children—and two adult caretakers—had died of it, passing in their sleep. Tom, being a wizard, was not susceptible to the virus, and a few years later he had correctly—if arrogantly—deduced that his then-undefined “specialness” was why he had not become ill. That deduction was also the beginning of his conviction that “magic people don’t have to die.” However, the spectre of death in sleep had still terrorized him. Until he was an older child, able to think and reason on a more mature level, he had not had any idea of why he had not become ill during the outbreak. And sleep _was_ a period of time when one was not aware of the world.

A new complication had arisen since he had met her. He had disliked being “apart” from her even in dreams.

_“I wonder what would happen if you slept holding my diary,” he had mused once. “Perhaps there would be a connection through it.”_

_Hermione had been startled—and rather disturbed at the idea. “I’d rather not,” she said abruptly. She did not want to admit it to him, but she still did not fully trust the thing not to possess her. It didn’t have to be malicious in nature. Tom “in the flesh” was certainly possessive enough of her, and this incorporeal part of him might just get the idea to be literal about it._

_Tom stared back at her. He did not argue, but he seemed to know exactly what she was thinking._

Allowing him to clutch her like this was the compromise. It was that rarity in which he had compromised more than she had. In fact, she didn’t consider it a compromise at all. This was quite pleasant.

Making sure not to wake him with her movements, Hermione set down her book.

_What have I been reading?_ she wondered idly, but only for a second. It didn’t matter.

_Oh, right, it was that material for Defense. The extra-credit project I was going to do with Tom. Slughorn was going to help me with it. I just have to find the right book in the library…._

“Wake up, Hermione!”

Her head shot up. A young man with black hair came into focus in her bedroom. Was it Tom?

_No, it was—_

“How did you get in here?” Hermione exclaimed.

“What do you mean?” Harry said, raising his eyebrows. “Were you trying to keep me out?”

“It’s my bedroom,” she said, confused.

“It’s the _tent.”_ He gestured around the room, and Hermione’s gaze followed. It was the Weasley tent. She had been sleeping on a chair. Where was Tom?

“Do you have the locket?” Harry asked anxiously.

Hermione looked down at her jumper. “No. It’s all right, though.”

“No, it’s bloody well _not.”_

Why was he so angry? He must not know. “Yes, it is. It’s not a Horcrux.”

“What? Hermione, don’t be stupid,” Harry said, a nasty snarl forming on his face. “That thing _killed_ Ron.”

_“What?”_ she exclaimed. She wanted to get up, but her body seemed anchored to the chair. She gazed at Harry’s face, which was set in a cold, simmering anger. “It didn’t happen that way and you know it! Bellatrix—it was Bellatrix. Why are you saying this?”

“It showed Ron pictures of you and _him_ doing—you know,” Harry said in disgust. “I saw them.”

_But that isn’t right,_ Hermione thought in despair. Why did Harry think that?

“You’re being stupid,” Harry said again, that nasty, uncharacteristic snarl still on his face. “Did it get into your head?”

“It wasn’t the locket. Or the ring. Or… anything. Just the diary. Don’t you know that? Maybe you’re the one who is stupid. I always checked your stupid homework. You never even read the assignments first. Lazy and stupid. And Ron was even worse.” She was angry, and if Harry was going to talk to her this way, she could give it right back in kind.

“It doesn’t matter,” he sneered. “The diary showed me pictures of you and _him._ You’re sick. Anyone who feels bad for him is sick. He should be fed to a dementor and destroyed utterly.” He put his hands on her shoulders and shook her. His fingers dug into her arms.

_How dare he raise a hand to me!_ She reached out and slapped him across the face.

Then she was outside the tent, wandering through the forest. It was winter, and the snowpack made it difficult to walk quickly.

The heavy drifts of snow transitioned to light patches, with bare ground exposed beneath. Flakes were coming down heavily. They would stop any minute, though.

Two redheaded people were seated on a rock. They stared straight ahead, as if Hermione was not even there, but she continued toward them. It was strange. She knew, somehow, that she should be happy about this, but instead she was apprehensive.

_I thought they were dead. Am I dead too then?_

“No.”

She turned to Ron. _He is going to die when I turn away,_ she thought suddenly. _As soon as I leave, he’ll die. They will both die and so will Harry. He may be dead already. And I hit him. I called him stupid and hit him._

“Who are you?”

Hermione collapsed to her knees and stared blankly at Ron. “How—you know who I am!”

“I’ve never seen you in my life,” said Ginny.

“You have to get away from here,” Hermione urged frantically. “As soon as the snow stops falling, both of you are going to die.”

The Weasleys ignored her. Hermione stood helplessly as the snowflakes grew smaller and the rate tapered off. Then the two redheads stood up, turned their backs to Hermione, and went through a small copse of trees behind the rock.

There was a cliff on the other side of the trees, she realized. Her heart stopped. Although she knew it was a terrible idea, and that she would lose her balance, she leaned over the edge and looked down.

Down.

Down.

It was impossibly high, higher than any mountain on earth could be, but there it was. At the very bottom was a thin crooked line, a river that flowed blood red.

_They’re gone._ She had not seen them fall, but she knew it.

Hermione stumbled.

* * *

Her eyes snapped open. The first thing she became aware of was darkness. The second was her thudding heart.

_It was a dream. They didn’t—_

_No. They are gone._

A dry sob escaped Hermione. As twisted, wrong, _evil_ as that nightmare had been, at least they were _there._ She had interacted with them again in a dream. Now there was just the horrendous, hideous reality that they were gone.

And worse, it was 1946 and neither they nor their parents had even been born.

Another sob, this one wracking her entire body.

_That wasn’t even like Harry,_ she thought as she felt Tom stir. _He would never say that. He even remarked several times that a part of him felt sorry for… Tom. He wouldn’t be like that. Why would I put those ugly words into his mouth? Why would I dream of him hurting me, and of me striking his face? What is wrong with me?_

A wave of tears finally broke the proverbial dam.

“Hermione?” Tom mumbled. His arm left her waist as he woke up. He blinked a few times and sat upright, watching her cry.

“Hermione, what is it?” he asked again.

She shook her head. What must he think of her, crying over a dream?

“Nightmare?” he guessed.

She wiped her face. “It was stupid,” she muttered. “My… old friends were alive, and they were….”

Tom hardly knew what to say. Finally he responded, somewhat lamely, “They don’t have to die like that this time.”

She shook her head. “It wasn’t that. Two of them said they didn’t know me, and they ignored what I told them, and one of them—I got in a horrible argument with him and… slapped him in the face… because he was hurting my arms.”

Tom’s face darkened. “They don’t deserve tears if they treated you that way,” he said in a hard tone.

_Oh God._ A fresh round of tears sent salty rivulets down her cheeks. “They _weren’t_ like that,” she said.

“Then… the dream… I mean, it shouldn’t bother you if it wasn’t really like them, right?”

_What the hell?_ Hermione gazed up at him, her face twisted with confusion and unhappiness. “Tom, haven’t you ever dreamed about having a horrid, vicious fight with someone you like?”

He paused for a moment.

“Tom?”

“No,” he said quickly.

_Of course,_ she thought miserably. _Until me, he never liked anyone. But—_

“Not even with me?”

Even in the dark, she could tell that this made him defensive. “Do you want me to?” he said. “Do you want me to dream about hurting you?”

She suddenly realized something. “You’re lying to me,” she accused. “You _have._ You have had that dream before, haven’t you?”

He glowered. “Once. It was loathsome,” he muttered, “and I tried to forget it. What I did to you in that dream—trust me, Hermione, you really don’t want to hear about it.”

Hermione winced as she realized the gist of what he must have dreamed about whenever he’d had that dream. She had had foul, violent, gory dreams before as well.

“It wasn’t you, though. And it wasn’t me.”

He was trying now. She could see that. He was attempting to comfort her in some way, the only way he knew how.

“They… he… what I told him—”

“Who?”

“My… best friend,” she said quietly. “What I said to him—there were grains of truth to it. In the dream, I said ugly things to him about—it sounds so stupid—about checking his homework for him, and how he sometimes didn’t read the assignments.”

Tom managed a chuckle.

“But there were other things….” She hesitated, unsure as to whether she should tell him the rest of it.

“Other things?” he said.

She closed her eyes. “It bothered me. It was like… a metaphor, or something. He said that this thing, this Horcrux that we carried around for months in my old life, ‘got into my head.’ But in that time, it didn’t, so it must have meant… now. Here. Us.”

To her dismay, a smirk burst onto his face at that. “Well, that’s true, then.”

She shook her head. “It was an _accusation_ , the way he said it.”

“An accusation,” Tom repeated. “Hermione. You shouldn’t let it upset you this much. Things will be different, and apparently, a lot better for everyone—including for me. You just said that these people aren’t like their counterparts in your dream, anyway.”

Her eyes fluttered shut. He didn’t understand—or if he did, he was unwilling to admit it, whether to her or consciously to himself.

She supposed that what he said was true, at least. But it didn’t comfort her. Why didn’t it?

He was trying to make her feel better, though, and that meant something. He _was_ trying, and she could tell that it _was_ for her, rather than merely because he wanted to get back to sleep as soon as possible. He just hadn’t needed to make anyone feel better about anything before her, and he did not really know how.

Suddenly it hit her. The real problem, and the problem that he just couldn’t handle, was that she felt guilty about the dream. She felt guilty, and at the same time, she knew that another type of guilt had itself produced the dream.

She did know that wasn’t Harry. That was the issue. Her dreaming mind had made Harry into that, for some reason, and _that_ was why it upset her. It was what _she_ had done. Her mind had put the ugly accusations into Harry’s mouth.

She felt guilty about thinking of her old friend that way, even in a dream outside her conscious control. Tom wouldn’t understand that, and he definitely wouldn’t understand the rest of her subconscious guilt, the part that had created the dream.

_Harry would not think that way. He would understand what I’m doing. I don’t need to feel guilty about it. Tom is a person, and because he is a person, I’m trying to help him instead of writing him off. I shouldn’t feel guilty about loving somebody. It’s a good thing._

“Hermione?”

She still didn’t want to talk to him. He was trying, and she understood that, but his words were not accomplishing what he intended. She didn’t want him to continue saying things that she knew would just make her angry eventually.

She shook her head again and leaned forward, resting her head on his shoulder. “I’m all right. Just hold me.”

For a second he looked as if he wanted to protest, to continue attempting to talk her out of her distress, but in the next moment his face cleared. He reached out and enclosed her in his arms.

They remained like that for a bit. As she focused on the sensation of his grip—he was possessive of her, and at this time, it was a great comfort to know—and the warmth of his body against hers, Hermione’s heart slowed to its normal pace, and her breaths became even. The lump in her throat dissolved.

He patted her on the back, and she managed a weak smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be more interesting scenes coming up in the future, including some political/Ministry-related ones. I just felt like writing these little psychological dramas first.


	3. Nice Shop You Have Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom has just been given a promotion, and Hermione wants to give him a gift. A very specific gift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I give you the Hermione who blackmailed Rita Skeeter and made the DA take a loyalty oath without their even knowing it.
> 
> In addition, the fic’s rating has been increased. (That didn’t take long.) I didn’t originally intend to have a reason to do that, but they apparently wanted me to.

_October 1949._

Tom smirked, loosened his tie, and picked up his briefcase. He strode out of the office, rode the elevator to the Atrium level of the Ministry, and headed to an Apparition point.

Hermione would not be home yet. She had communicated with him by Floo during the day about a sudden emergency that had come up in her think tank, Advance, which would likely require her to stay an hour late. He could not imagine what it might be, and she did not have time to explain. The organization typically had emergencies only when legislative matters in the Ministry or other current events affecting its agenda were taking place. No such events had happened today. By all accounts, the nonprofit should be having a typical day, with steady, regular research activities going on. Evidently the emergency was internal.

Tom would simply go home, have a drink, and wait till Hermione arrived before telling her his big news.

* * *

When Hermione had started her organization, she had brooded for weeks over what to name it. She would have private research efforts going on, both in pure magic and in the application of magic to Muggle technology. The group would also have a policy wing keeping a steady eye on the Ministry. Currently its policy wing focused on human affairs, but eventually she hoped to branch out to address legal concerns of all sapient magical beings. What to call an organization with such broad focus? Any traditional name that attempted to describe all its purposes would be a mouthful and a half. Worse, it would be dull and stodgy.

Finally she had an epiphany, remembering the succinctness of the name “Dumbledore’s Army”—and, for that matter, the Death Eaters—and decided to go with a single word: Advance. It was memorable, it was punchy, and it was apt for everything she hoped to do with it. It was, in fact, what the wizarding world needed to do in several areas.

At the moment, though, she had a different sort of problem.

“Madam President—”

“Leave me be for now, please,” Hermione groaned.

“But your brandy,” the young office assistant protested.

Hermione sighed, accepting the drink. “Thank you, Edith. You can go home, by the way. You don’t have to stay here. It’s technically after hours.”

“I want to help,” the girl said.

“This is helpful,” Hermione assured her, sipping from the glass. “It’s quite all right, really.” She breathed deeply. “The news simply came as a shock to me, that’s all.”

Not for the world was Hermione going to explain to her personal staff the _real_ reason why the news of Hepzibah Smith’s sudden death—apparently a violent Splinching—had upset her.

Edith closed the office door, leaving Hermione to herself in her private sanctum. She sighed and took another sip of the delicious brandy. In the alternate timeline, Madam Smith would have been murdered around 1948—by Tom, over the Slytherin locket. Her life would have been cut short, but clearly not _that_ short. Tom _probably_ didn’t know about her ownership of the item this time, since he did not ever work at Borgin and Burkes. In any case, this really did seem to be what it looked like. It would take quite a lot of “creativity” to get several body parts to suddenly appear in Diagon Alley before horrified witnesses. Madam Smith had been old, physically slow, and heavily overweight; she probably should not have attempted to Apparate. There was no reason to think the death had been murder.

But still….

_I’ll just have to introduce the subject subtly._

Hermione finished the rest of her drink and prepared to Floo home.

* * *

Tom was seated in the sitting room, drinking gin and tonic and reading a book, when Hermione entered the fireplace. He glanced up. “I hope everything is sorted out at work,” he said.

Hermione sank into her favorite chair. She nodded. He had not acted suspicious so far.

 _I have no reason to suspect him anyway,_ she thought. _This is prejudice. It’s unfair._

“I’m glad,” he said. A smile blossomed on his face. “I have good news.”

Her head shot up. “You mean—”

The smile transformed into a smirk. “Yes. My suspicions were correct. I’m going to be promoted to Chief Advisor.” He sipped his drink and fingered the rim of the glass. “And there is a rumor in the Ministry that Ogden is going to leave in a couple of years. I think he wants to do a stint of teaching. He seems burned out lately and I get the strong impression that he wants to _de facto_ turn the job over to me with this.”

Hermione smiled. “That’s great,” she said.

Tom smiled back, but when he met her eyes, he frowned. “Hermione, what happened at work? You are preoccupied.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry—I really am happy for you—”

“I wasn’t fishing for an apology,” he said briskly. “It’s obvious that whatever happened either is _not_ sorted out or it’s still bothering you. What was it?”

She looked down and sighed. “We lost a major donor. She died.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” he replied. “Who?”

His words were almost toneless. He _was_ sorry that Advance had lost some funding, and it did appear that he had not known about it, but it was perfectly obvious to Hermione that he did not care about the death itself. Of course, she mused, he had no reason to care about the death of a random stranger.

“Madam Hepzibah Smith. She left a legacy to us in her will, but it won’t be as large as her annual donations were.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Tom replied. “Was she one of _those_ Smiths?”

Hermione nodded. Either he was putting on a very good act, or he really had had no interest in the woman this time. Her anxiety settled.

“You should persuade the heirs,” he remarked, taking a sip of his drink. “Make up the difference that way.”

“That’s the plan,” she said.

The conversation trailed off. After a minute, Tom set down his book and empty glass. “Hermione, what is really the matter? Was she important in—your past?”

Hermione avoided his eyes as she hedged, “Well, yes and no.”

Tom raised an eyebrow. “So—just yes, you mean. Spill it, Hermione. I’m curious now.”

She scowled. His sense of entitlement sometimes really grated. “Tom, it’s irrelevant. It’s something that didn’t happen this time.”

He stared evenly at her, trying to catch her gaze. “Did it involve— _him?”_

Leave it to him to guess so shrewdly. Hermione gave up. She raised her head and met his eyes with her own. “Yes, it did,” she said flatly. “You would have murdered her a year ago.”

Tom was visibly taken aback at her bluntness. “I would have? Whatever for?”

There was no moral revulsion in his words, only surprise, but that was what Hermione expected. “She owned something that you… would have wanted,” she said.

He raised his eyebrow again. “Really.” He was unable to keep the curiosity from his voice.

“Really. She was descended from Hufflepuff and had an heirloom,” Hermione hedged. Better not to say a word about the locket, or Madam Smith’s heirs might be in serious danger.

Tom looked irritated. “I see.”

“Tom, I said I’m sorry. You didn’t do it. I didn’t even want to discuss it further… I mean, why don’t we talk about your promotion and your plans for Magical Law Enforcement? This other thing doesn’t matter.”

He looked as if he wanted to object, but he seemed to recognize that the subject would not be fruitful. The brief scowl passed, and he returned to his original topic of discussion.

Hermione felt bad about spoiling his announcement. As she listened to him, she had an idea suddenly occur to her to make it up to him. _Tom’s promotion. The locket._ She needed to find out, if she could, what the Smith heirs would do with it. They were Hufflepuffs, and their matriarch had bought the locket late in life. Surely they would have no sentimental attachment to it and would prefer the money instead. It was something that Tom would like, and it was appropriate for him to have it.

* * *

By the time Hermione had a private meeting with the family of Madam Smith, ostensibly to discuss her bequest to Advance, they had already disposed of the locket. In fact, they were complaining about the number of trinkets the matriarch had bought over the years, and the locket was among them. It was back in the possession of Caractacus Burke. That suited Hermione’s plans much better. She had leverage over Burke that she did not have over these people, and when she really thought about it—when she seriously considered the circumstances of how he acquired the locket—she found herself looking forward to the encounter very much.

As she prepared for her meeting with that old crook, though, she suddenly started having doubts about her idea. She would enjoy confronting Burke, but what about afterward, if she achieved her goal? Her thoughts whirled with concerns and unpleasant flashbacks.

_I wore this thing around my neck for months. It didn’t affect me or Harry the way it affected Ron, but it put me in a sour mood if I wore it for too long. Some terrible things happened while Harry and I had it in our possession. There was the snake incident… and his wand…._

_And it was a Horcrux. That in itself is disturbing to—_

_It won’t be this time._

_I hope._

_He said he wouldn’t create multiple ones. He saw what that would do to him._

_He saw what it would do to him, and he still decided he could handle “just one.” What if he decides he can handle “just two”?_

_I wish that he hadn’t… no, no point in that._

_Why am I even doing this?_

She sighed. It wasn’t nearly as simple as wanting to give him a gift to celebrate his promotion. That might have been the genesis of the idea, but it was much more complicated than that now. It wasn’t even about showing affection to him in a personally meaningful way, at least not entirely. That _was_ part of it. She had wanted lately to do something special for him, and this would definitely count. A smile formed involuntarily on Hermione’s face as she imagined how he would react. But there was something else in addition to both of those reasons.

_I need to do this for myself too. I need to let go of something. What, though? My past? I can never do that, no one really can, and it isn’t a good idea anyway. My unpleasant memories associated with the locket?_

That was closer to the truth. Hermione’s mind latched onto this idea, and she considered it further.

 _It’s not just that. I’m letting go of a fear. If I don’t do this, I will always wonder if he_ would _have used this locket for that purpose, or if it would revive the original plan in his mind. I’ll always wonder, and that uncertainty will fester, and I’ll come to believe eventually that of course the locket would trigger him to do something bad._

_I can’t let that happen. It’s unfair to him. I have to see what he actually does—how he truly reacts to receiving it._

_I have to… trust him._

* * *

When Hermione went to visit Caractacus Burke in his shop, she made sure to dress to intimidate. Burke had taken terrible advantage of Merope Riddle that winter night in 1926, and while that was inexcusable, he might have seen her as an easy mark because she was dressed like a beggar and probably walked about cowed. It was ugly, perhaps, but it was still true that appearance mattered for how people were perceived, and Hermione had become acutely aware of that reality over the past few years. It was all very well to rage that Burke _should_ respect her no matter what, but if he didn’t, then her purpose would not be achieved whether it was fair or not. She made sure to wear her finest tailored black robes over a smart suit. She accented the ensemble with emerald jewelry and swept her hair under a stylish black hat.

“Classy,” Tom remarked admiringly. He had been staring at her in the mirror as she got ready.

“Thank you,” she replied.

“I take it that you have an important meeting today?”

She smothered her smirk. He did not know that she had already told her office staff that she would miss the morning. She had selected this day for a reason: It was his first day at his new job, and she expected he would be preoccupied with that thought and wouldn’t focus as much on anomalies in her morning routine. Still, his guess was true, technically.

“Important enough,” she hedged, adjusting her hat.

“Then good luck with it.”

* * *

At Borgin and Burkes, a sign on the front door falsely claimed “Closed for the Morning.” The door was locked and opaque blinds covered the windows, which darkened the shop’s interior so much that it seemed almost like late afternoon. Caractacus Burke stood behind the front desk, his hands fidgeting, as Hermione leaned over the counter with a smug smile on her face.

Burke righted himself and attempted to hold his hands still. “Now see here, Mrs. Riddle—”

Hermione interrupted him. “Mr. Burke, I’m well aware that you… acquired… the locket from a destitute, heavily pregnant witch in December 1926—a witch who so happens to have been the mother of one of the fastest-rising stars in the Ministry, and a national hero.”

“Yes,” Burke acceded at once. “I had no idea I was doing business with her, but in retrospect it was quite an honor—”

“Don’t patronize me, Mr. Burke. I also know that you paid her only ten Galleons for it.”

Burke looked startled. His face paled a bit, and he began to fidget once more. “How do you know about that?” he exclaimed.

“Madam Hepzibah Smith was one of Advance’s top donors,” Hermione said smoothly, not answering the question directly. “But the _real_ question is, what are we going to do about this?”

Burke scowled. “It was a legitimate business deal,” he muttered. “I offered her ten in gold and she took it. It’s not my fault she didn’t know better. You and your husband don’t have the right to interfere in private transactions.”

“Perhaps not,” she said airily, “but he _can_ heavily influence other laws that affect shops, especially now that he is going to be Ogden’s Chief Advisor. He knows perfectly well that you sell Dark artifacts.” She glanced at the silver-and-opal necklace that lay on a display of black velvet. “This necklace has killed twelve Muggles,” she continued, reading the card that rested in front of it. She shot Burke a knowing look. “And _others._ Tom got Septimus Weasley’s bills killed after that incident, and your livelihood might have suffered if he hadn’t. Weasley was pushing to remove the clause protecting shop owners, you know, after that. Does the Ministry know the Blacks sold this to you and you have it on display? I’m betting not.”

Burke winced.

Hermione felt a stab of guilt about implying that the necklace had killed Pollux Black when she knew very well to the contrary. But it _was_ the official story… and more importantly, Burke _had_ cheated Tom’s mother out of a windfall that could have supported her and her son. She might have had enough money to find a competent midwife, whether a Muggle or a witch. She might have survived childbirth and still had enough money to find a place to live until she could get a job. Hermione could never prove it, but the possibility existed that Burke’s avarice had deprived Tom of his mother.

Given that, if she could get Burke to turn over Tom’s rightful property for next to nothing, what difference did it make if she used dishonest insinuations about Black’s death to do it? Avoiding the subject could not change anything that Tom had done in that wretched matter. Why not use it as a tool?

“Tom does not know that you cheated his mother, sent her to her death, and made a fortune off her property,” Hermione continued. “It is _very much_ in your best interest that he does not find that out—at least not while you still hold said property.”

Burke swallowed hard. He fumbled at the case that held the Slytherin locket. “What exactly do you… that is to say….”

“You paid ten Galleons in 1926,” Hermione said. “Madam Smith bought it later for… rather a lot more. After she died, her heirs sold it back to you.” She glanced at the man’s eyes and performed some surface Legilimency. “And you made a profit on that transaction too, I see. Twenty, Mr. Burke. Twenty. And I am being generous with that.”

Burke sneered. “Twenty? This locket is worth at least a thousand in gold.”

 _“Exactly,”_ Hermione snarled. She leaned forward. “A thousand that Merope Riddle and her infant son didn’t get.”

“We can negotiate—” Burke began to say.

“No. You could have negotiated with her twenty-three years ago, but you are not in a position to negotiate with me. Either you can refuse me, and the Chief Advisor to the Head of Law Enforcement can find out about it, as well as the heirs of Madam Smith, who undoubtedly _did_ pay the full value and more… or you can accept my very generous offer, which would allow you to make yet more profit on this locket. Choose wisely, Mr. Burke.”

* * *

That afternoon, Hermione felt a steady rush of adrenaline as she walked out of the office with her deceptively simple parcel, covered in brown paper, in hand. That had felt good.

 _Is it all right that I enjoyed that so much?_ she asked herself. _I never got a thrill from intimidating people before. When I did it, it was something that I had to do. It wasn’t something to do for fun._

 _Well,_ she rationalized at once, _I did have to do it. Burke heartlessly cheated an impoverished pregnant woman. Just a few days ago he paid the Smith family—people who are bereaved—less than what he charged Madam Smith when she bought it, not just less with inflation, but less, period. Anyone like that has to be intimidated and threatened, because nothing else works._

_I still enjoyed it. I never specifically enjoyed it before._

_I would feel used and foolish if I’d paid any more than I did. That was the only alternative, letting that man take advantage of me. Because I stood up to him, an heirloom is back in the family, and considering the price of gold, I didn’t pay much more for it than Burke did to obtain it. The circle is complete._

_I still enjoyed doing that._

_I was strong, and I stood up to a cheat. There’s nothing wrong with that._

Somewhat mollified by these rationalizations, Hermione Apparated home.

Once inside, she took a deep breath. This was it. This was the moment. She would give the item to Tom, and he would… react however he reacted. If he did as she hoped, then someday the unpleasant past associations of this locket would fade away, replaced by many more memories of it as a lovely, benign heirloom.

He was sitting in the study, in his favorite green velvet chair. His hat, jacket, and wizard robes were hanging on the coat rack, leaving only a suit vest and shirt, and he had rolled up his sleeves. He had a bottle of very fine brandy open on a side table and held a glass of it in hand. An empty glass sat on the table next to the bottle.

“Hermione,” he acknowledged.

She crossed the room, hung her hat on the rack, and sat down in the chair next to his. “Is that because of today?” she asked, glancing at the liquor.

He smirked and poured her a glass. “Off to a brilliant start, if I may say so.” He raised his glass to toast himself.

She chuckled, shook her head slightly, and joined the toast. Setting her glass down afterward, she took the wrapped parcel out of her robe pocket. “I picked up something for you,” she said slyly, holding it out.

Tom’s eyebrows quirked as he took the parcel. He removed the paper to find a standard rectangular gift box covered in black satin, stamped with the Borgin and Burkes logo. He opened the lid.

Hermione watched as his eyes grew wide and his face pale—paler than usual, at least. He lifted the locket by its chain and gazed at it.

“Hermione,” he said, “is this what I think it is? When I… that night… my _uncle”_ —he uttered the word with a disdainful snarl—“said that she took it away….”

“It belonged to your mother, yes. And it was Slytherin’s. Try opening it. I dare say you can guess how.”

Tom looked thoughtful for a moment before the answer occurred to him. He hissed commandingly at the locket, which opened with a pleasant clink of metal. He gazed at the inside almost reverently. Hermione held her breath.

“And from Borgin and Burkes…” he mused. “Merlin, Hermione, how much did you _pay_ for this?”

She smirked. “Much less than you fear. It’s a long story, but Burke did _not_ give your mother its full value, not even close, and I… persuaded… him to sell it back to me for little more than he paid her. I figured it served him right.”

Tom chuckled darkly, then gazed at her with frank admiration. He fingered the outside of the locket. “Do I remember correctly that this had some… significance… in your old time?”

Hermione’s heart skipped a beat. “You… might say that, yes.”

His mouth curled in an asymmetric smirk as he met her eyes. “I thought so.”

She glanced away, not wanting to look him in the eye directly, but watched from her peripheral vision. He did seem to have deduced the unspoken subtext.

Abruptly he closed the locket and set it back down in its velvet-lined box. He looked directly at her. “Hermione, I keep my promises to you,” he said. “If you had somehow managed to get this for me during the first term of school, then… I would have seriously considered… although I think the diary is still better, since it was only ever mine, I wrote so much in it about you, and it’s interactive….” He trailed off, gazing at the ceiling and fortunately not at the expression on Hermione’s face. “But either way, there still would only have been one,” he finished. “I said once that I would not lie to you again, at least not about anything significant.”

A smile tugged at the corners of Hermione’s mouth in spite of herself. She took a sip of the brandy he had poured for her. It really was a fine one.

“So—thank you for this,” he said, leaning over the arm of his chair closer to hers. He watched as she moved to set the glass down on the table between them, and when she did, he grabbed her hand and brought it to his lips.

Hermione had not eaten since lunch, and the spirit was hitting her system quickly. That, combined with Tom’s affirmation, made her feel upbeat and happy. She smiled at his gesture and drank a larger gulp.

He returned her smile with a notably hungry look, a look just shy of being a leer. His fingers trailed up her hand, slightly past her wrist.

“What are you doing?”

His fingers enclosed her wrist firmly. “What does it look like?” He pulled her up from her chair and into his as she half-walked, not really attempting to stop him. She was half in his lap before he stopped.

With the influence of the brandy and her own cheerful mood, Hermione was certainly not averse to what Tom seemed to be up to. However, she knew it was often a game to him, and she how to play this particular game well.

“I’m dressed up,” she said as he drew her in close to him.

“You are,” he agreed, “and that has been on my mind all day, since I saw you putting those clothes on in the morning.” He spoke very matter-of-factly.

Her hands found the opal clasp on her witch’s robe. She started to undo it, but quickly his hands covered hers. “I didn’t say I wanted you out of them,” he growled. Her eyes widened.

He leaned in and gave her a deep, hard kiss—and then broke it just as suddenly, pulling on her bottom lip with his teeth for a moment as he did. For a moment they stared intensely at each other, his mouth slightly open.

The tip of her tongue darted out of her mouth, then back in, lightly grazing her lips. It was an involuntary action. He could tell. And he didn’t care.

He lunged forward. His right hand slid under her robes, groping at her waist. He quickly unzipped her skirt and plunged his hand under it and her silky, lacy knickers.

She gasped as he began to tease and stroke her, sometimes dipping slightly inside her, just long enough to torment her.

_He’s not going to have it all his way._

Hermione heaved her breath and pushed herself against him. She groped at his crotch, pressing against his manhood, feeling him grow hard at her touch. A grunt escaped his mouth. Good. That meant he wasn’t entirely in control. She met his eyes and smirked knowingly at him.

His eyes flashed, a flicker of red light gleaming momentarily instead of white. Suddenly Hermione knew that he had seen her most recent thought.

“You think so?” he murmured quietly. “Let’s see.”

With his free hand, Tom managed to shift their positions in the roomy chair so that they were each braced against an armrest and facing each other. His fingers dipped deeper into her, and he began rubbing more aggressively against her center. An involuntary moan escaped her. “More,” she gasped. Smugly he plunged two fingers in her.

She gasped again. Her hands flew to his shoulders, clutching at him as she panted. This time _he_ smirked—and she noticed it.

_Nope. I’m going to reduce him to this too._

Breathing deeply, she surged forward, feeling the hardness against her abdomen, rutting against him. The heavy silk fabric of her robe rustled at their movements. He groaned again, clearly trying to resist his own reactions, but not doing a good job of it.

A ragged, scratchy groan escaped from his mouth. Pleased, she pushed against him harder, grinding against his crotch. His fingers delved into her roughly, with little technique, but it still sent a shiver up her body. She met his eyes, smiled with deceptive benignancy, and reached forward with her hands again, sliding them under the waistband of his trousers.

“Damn you, Hermione,” he gasped as she tormented him. He attempted to gain possession of himself again, forcing his facial features to return to normal. He heaved a deep breath. With his left hand, he firmly pushed her away from him by the shoulder.

She began to cry out in protest as the warmth and delightful touch of his right hand departed, the hand slipping back through her clothes. Still holding her away from him with his other hand, Tom brought it to his mouth. He licked his fingers clean, staring at her with that smirk on his face the whole time.

“You want to—” she began to say, but before she could complete the sentence, he had pushed her gently on the soft carpet in front of the chair.

“Finish me,” he commanded.

A pang of unfulfilled want throbbed from her center. “But you didn’t—”

“I will. Just do it.”

Her eyes widened. He did not generally ask her to do this for him, and they had never done anything in their study. This was a first.

She leaned forward, positioning herself between his splayed knees, and began to minister to him. His fingers tangled in her curls, thoroughly mussing the perfect hairdo she had worn her hair in all day, but it did not matter now.

Another ragged groan from him as he clenched a handful of thick hair. She had done well; he obviously would not last much longer.

The thought of him undone under her control sent a surge of want through her body. Her core throbbed again. That was it. She couldn’t just neglect herself. She clenched her thighs together for a moment, then slipped her left hand between them. _Yes._ That was better. She didn’t have to have both hands for what she was doing to him….

Watching her pleasure herself sent him over the edge. As he spent himself in her mouth, his hands grabbed tightly at her hair. She felt pinpricks of pain in her scalp as he pulled, but it did not, somehow, actually hurt.

He was breathing heavily, clenching and unclenching his hands in her hair. She gazed up at him, and the sight made her shiver again.

Then, suddenly, he yanked her hand out of her robes. Her face twisted, and she whimpered in protest. He held her wrist over the pulse point, regarding her almost contemplatively, casually, as he regained command of himself and that insolent smirk formed on his face again.

“I don’t _bloody_ well think so,” he murmured. _“I_ will make you come.”

Another shiver at these words. “Then do it,” she gasped.

In a fluid movement, Tom slid to the floor and lifted her legs up. He threw her robe open, yanked the skirt up roughly, and pulled her knickers down and off. He flashed her an evil grin that sent a shudder of anticipation down her entire body before descending.

Then his tongue was on her and in her and his fingers were there too and it was almost too much for her to even focus. He slipped one, two, three fingers inside her, alternating steady rhythmic slides with sudden intense plunges. His tongue darted across her core in delightful strokes. He had done this for her before, but it had almost always been as a prelude, and so he had not wanted her to expend all her desire from it. Right now, he was teasing and pleasing her so aggressively that there could be no doubt about his intentions.

Suddenly he broke up his movements. He went deep inside her and did not move his hand for a moment, breaking his rhythm. Her breath caught in her chest, then escaped in a rush. A wave of ecstasy rocked her, over and over. He pinned her to the floor, holding her down, looking very smug and satisfied.

She heaved a breath. “I could get used to being thanked this way,” she murmured.

He flashed her a wicked look. “I could get used to being congratulated this way.”

She met his gaze with hers and smiled a wry smile.


	4. Specialis Revelio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione’s daughter is born alive and well, much to her mother’s joy. Her father is concerned about something else, however.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to put this up later, but by popular demand, here it is now. I am very sorry to anyone who wanted this to be pure sweetness.

_July 1950._

Hermione really, really hoped she had made the right decision.

After four and a half years of observing Tom very closely—of watching his attitudes at home and on the job for any signs that he had reverted to violence as his tool of choice for exercising power—she had decided to take the plunge.

There were no hints of it. He did use coercion and corruption, and she strongly suspected that he made use of the Imperius Curse when those failed, but there were no indications that he resorted to physically hurting other people as a show of power. She couldn’t rule out that he might in the future—though she hoped a situation did not arise, like it had several times in their seventh year, in which he deemed it necessary—but it wasn’t his default action now.

Hermione had decided in autumn of the previous year, while obtaining the Slytherin locket for him, that she was not going to be Tom’s warden for the rest of her life. It meant nothing to be able to claim, “Tom didn’t do thus-and-such bad thing because _I didn’t give him the opportunity.”_ Moreover, having him on a figurative chain would prevent her from actually trusting him, and if he found out, he wouldn’t trust her either. She had to give him the chance to decide for himself what he was going to do. She had to allow him to live—and she had to live her life too.

Still—

She knew that the timeline was already irrevocably altered. Dumbledore was still just a prestigious scholar rather than any kind of politician, Tom _was_ up to his neck in legitimate politics instead of gathering assorted malcontents around the Continent, and she was head of a growing organization. Nonetheless, something about this felt far more sweeping and permanent than any of those changes.

 _This is a human being who wouldn’t even have existed without my presence here,_ she thought, putting her right hand over her lower belly. _Institutions come and go, but this is a person._

A person who would have Tom for a father. Tom, who, despite not behaving like _Voldemort_ , was still a Dark wizard, still had difficulty respecting anyone other than himself and his immediate family, and still had convinced himself that eventually Hermione would join him in his plan for physical immortality, despite having absolutely no encouragement from her in that notion.

She really hoped this was a good idea. He would certainly be a devoted father, she supposed. She did not have to worry that he would be aloof and uninvolved with his own children—especially since they would be his children with _her._ If anything, he was much more likely to be excessively controlling.

She was six months along, and there was a spell that could determine the baby’s sex at this point. They were going to have a daughter. They had not picked out a name for her, but they both had lists. At the moment, Tom favored the name Matilda. Hermione did not. She generally wasn’t superstitious, but she did read Roald Dahl as a little girl, and she considered that name ominous and unsettling on several levels. Of course, if she explained that rationale to Tom, it would probably only cement his support of the name; it would be a sign to him that his daughter would be powerful, intelligent, and special, and he would ignore what it “meant” about the child’s family life. But she did not have a favorite suggestion of her own yet.

Tom came into the room and sat down next to her. He observed where her hand was and smiled. He was smiling a lot more than usual these days, Hermione noticed—and a real smile, not that smirk of his. She liked the smirk too, in _appropriate_ contexts, but it was nice to see him genuinely happy. It helped to convince her that this would be all right.

A mild thrum of desire started deep in her, but now was not the time. She felt these a lot lately, so she knew she would have plenty of opportunity later. It was a typical part of pregnancy, she knew from reading, but still a very pleasant one. When she wasn’t otherwise occupied—and sometimes even when she was—she found her thoughts frequently straying to the night that she was sure it had happened. They had been trying deliberately, and it had made him—both of them, really, but especially him—much more… intense. It had felt like he was trying to get as far in her as he could, to make absolutely certain that every bit of seed spilled there… and then afterward, clutching each other’s shoulders and sides hard enough to leave marks….

 _Now is really not the time for this,_ she told herself sternly.

She turned to him. “The Healer left a little while ago,” she said in normal tones.

“Well, I hope you’re all right,” he said brusquely.

Hermione was not offended. She knew that he still had difficulty expressing concern in any way other than possessiveness or anger. He was getting better, though. He seemed to realize that he had been abrupt, because he quickly placed an arm around her shoulders and squeezed her.

She nodded. “The Healer told me that everything was progressing as it should.”

He let out his breath. “That’s a relief. I always worry….”

“So do I, but everything is fine.”

“It’s not really even that—the medical aspects,” he hedged.

She glanced at him curiously. “Then what do you mean?”

“There’s a part of me—a stupid part,” he added defensively, “that almost believes that… that I’ll blink, or that I’m going to wake up and suddenly all this will be gone. That _you_ will be gone. That it’s not really real. But once she is born, that will make it so, somehow.”

Hermione smothered a laugh. It wasn’t really _that_ far removed from her own train of thought, that the career changes she had effected were less “real” than the birth of a brand-new person. However—

“Tom, do you know what solipsism is?” she said, avoiding chuckling, but not successfully hiding a grin.

He scowled at her. “It’s an idea in Muggle metaphysics.”

She sighed in exasperated amusement. “Tom, things in science and philosophy are either true or false—for everyone. They aren’t ‘Muggle.’”

He continued to glare. “My point is, I know what it means. That’s not what I—I mean, you weren’t born in this time like other people. You came here by time magic. What if you _do_ suddenly vanish, for the same reason?”

“I won’t. The device I used anchored me in the past permanently, no matter what happens.” She thought about telling him that Dumbledore had explained it, but she decided against that. With his biases, he would not consider that a reliable source. “I’m not going anywhere. You’ll have me _and_ her.”

He nodded, accepting her words.

* * *

_Three months later._

Hermione cuddled her daughter close. Her face hurt from smiling, but she couldn’t stop. The delivery had gone very smoothly, with no complications, and the Healer had already taken care of the minor birth injuries she had received. Tom was hovering around. He had wanted the Healer out of the room as soon as she was no longer needed, determined to have his family all to himself.

Hermione knew that parents were biased, and would convince themselves that their own children were cute even if they were not, but Madeline Riddle really did seem to be a very pretty baby. Healthily pink, angelic-faced, and with thick, shiny black hair—his hair. He seemed to like that.

They had compromised on her name, finally settling on something that sounded somewhat similar to his other choice. To Hermione’s surprise, when she had explained (with some embarrassment) her reasoning against the name Matilda, he had instantly understood.

_“Of course we wouldn’t be like the parents in that book, then, hating her because she was special. We’re not ignorant, narrow-minded Muggle fools.”_

She supposed she should have known. Still, at least he clarified which specific type of Muggles he didn’t like, and she couldn’t disagree with him. The Dursleys….

No, she didn’t want to think about nasty people like that right now. This was _their_ moment.

He didn’t quite know how to handle a baby. He had held her like a fragile piece of heavy china at first, somewhat removed from his body, seemingly embarrassed to be seen cuddling her—until Hermione gave him an encouraging look and the Healer was out of their house. Then he had drawn her close, but it was still not a natural embrace like Hermione’s. It was… almost _clutching_ her. He would figure it out in time, though.

Hermione glanced up at him. He had sent out an owl to someone a little while ago and was apparently awaiting a reply letter. She wondered whom he might have wanted to contact with the news. Possibly Vincent Rosier, the closest thing he had to a friend or protégé. Maybe Slughorn. Maybe Bob Ogden.

He came over to the bedside. “Might I hold her again?”

She handed the baby off to him. It was good that he wanted to try again. He accepted her gently and brought her close to his chest. This looked more natural to her and less like a threatened alpha wolf hovering over his pup….

Her smile widened again as he stroked the soft skin of Madeline’s cheek. “You’re real. You’re really here,” he murmured. His gaze fixed upon the baby. “You won’t be left alone. You won’t be abandoned… and we _won’t_ die on you. I won’t. And I won’t let your mum….” His voice was almost inaudible, but Hermione still caught it. He was saying the words almost like a protective incantation, as if by uttering them, he could control reality the way he did as a wizard with spells.

The spell was broken by the tapping of an owl on the nearest window.

To Hermione’s surprise, Tom instantly thrust her back into her arms and went to retrieve the letter that the owl carried. She was a little upset that this so easily distracted him. What could be so important—?

Tom was reading the letter, biting his lip in anxiety at first. Then, after a few seconds, a smile broke over his face like a sunbeam. He exhaled deeply.

“Tom, who is that from?”

He looked guilty for a fraction of a second. “Dippet,” he said somewhat defensively.

 _“Dippet?”_ Hermione had not expected that answer. “You haven’t, that I’ve seen, written to anyone else yet. _He_ is the first person you notified?”

Tom shrugged expressively. Hermione instantly because suspicious, though she knew not of what. That shrug just looked fake.

“Tom, could I see the letter?”

He clearly did not want to. “I….” He trailed off, apparently briefly weighing the idea of denying her, but deciding at once that it wouldn’t work. “All right.” He carried the paper over to Hermione and handed it to her, an air of bravado and defiance about him. She passed Madeline to him once more and glanced at the note.

 

_Dear Tom,_

_Congratulations to you and Hermione on the birth of your healthy daughter. Although I never became a parent myself, I have no doubt that this is one of the most important moments in your lives. I am pleased to inform you that this morning, her name did appear on the Hogwarts roster for the class that will begin school in Autumn 1962. I am sure that you and Hermione will be excellent parents to your little witch. If there is anything that the educators of Hogwarts can do to help either of you with the magical issues of infancy and early childhood, please do not hesitate to ask._

_Fondly,_

_Armando Dippet_

 

Hermione felt cold suddenly, and a stone seemed to drop through her stomach. She set the letter down almost mechanically and gaped at Tom with a horrified expression. He was stroking Madeline’s soft black hair, but it suddenly wasn’t quite so cute.

“Tom, you… the first thing you did… you actually asked Dippet if she was on the roll? _That_ is what came to your mind? You couldn’t just wait for her to have her first burst of magic?” Her voice broke, but she attempted to muffle the sound.

Tom drew her close in a defensive, protective embrace. He met Hermione’s eyes with defiance in his own. “It’s like walking and talking,” he said, holding the baby to his chest. “We know those will happen too, but we don’t know exactly when or how, so it won’t make it any less special when they do happen.”

“That is _not_ what I mean.” Hermione sat upright and stared hard at him. “You wanted to be sure that she was magical.”

He glared back at her, not even attempting to deny it. Somehow the brazen, unspoken admission hurt more than an excuse would have.

“What if she _had_ been a Squib, Tom? What then?”

He stiffened, startled at the question. For a horrible second, his face was blank, as if he could not even accept the possibility.

“What would you have done, Tom?”

He unfroze. Breathing deeply, he held the child close. “I… would have been disappointed, I won’t lie about that—but _you would have too,”_ he said pointedly.

For a second, she wanted to object, but her mouth would not form the words. Damn it, but he was right. She would have been disappointed. And it would have been sad for everyone. It was isolating enough from the opposite side, to be able to do something that for years no one else she knew could do. To learn that not only were her parents not invincible, but that they weren’t even authoritative—that she could make them do what she wanted and they could do nothing about it. She hadn’t, but it had troubled her in some way to know that she _could_ have. How much worse would it be for a child to _always_ compare herself to her parents and come up short? It was good that that wasn’t going to happen, at least over the existence of magical ability.

“But… I… would’ve placed her in the Muggle government, or academy, or whatever she wanted to do. She would have the very best of whatever she wanted in her life, and I’d have an unconditional ally on that side.”

Hermione closed her eyes as relief washed over her. She had hardly expected him to say something like, “I would disown her,” not openly and to her face, and not at this particular moment, but this answer actually sounded sincere to her. His tone was honest, and if nothing else, the element of self-centered political planning in it spoke to its being the truth. He did want what was best for his child, whatever that might be. He _was_ different.

He stepped over to the bed, climbed on it, and stretched out next to Hermione. “I wanted to know,” he said quietly, passing the baby back to Hermione. “It would have bothered me otherwise, either way. If she _hadn’t_ been a witch… well, I would have had more time to get used to the idea, instead of waiting and waiting for something that wouldn’t happen. And now that I know she is, I can enjoy watching her grow without that particular source of anxiety.”

Hermione thought it was a little sad that he needed to know this to be able to enjoy her development milestones, but some people required extra assurance of whatever worried them. Some people couldn’t handle not knowing something. He was one of those people, and to an extent, so was she.

Madeline was waking up. Her eyes snapped open, still unused to the world of harsh light. She was apparently hungry, and she was also unused to that awful feeling. She opened her mouth and let out a howl of protest to her parents to fix it, to make her unhappiness go away.

Hermione smothered a laugh at that thought. They couldn’t do that for everything, much as they might want to. Tom would certainly try, of course. But for now, hers was a world of simple needs, things that they could make right, and Hermione knew she should treasure that.


	5. Highly Irregular

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Orion Black petitions for his family to be reinstated to the Wizengamot. The circumstances of the vote turn out to be very suspect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s a political maneuvers piece. I realize that many readers might not find these very interesting, but other readers do, and I love writing them. There will be more of them in future chapters, but no fear, there will also be more family scenes, including a few that aren't even that angsty.

Hermione picked up the letter, trying to control her anger and alarm.

 

_Mrs. Riddle—_

 

Hermione generally did not think about it overmuch, and when she did, it didn’t trouble her, but at the moment, she _really_ disliked that address. She disliked the implication that she was somehow answerable for whatever he had done. That _his_ deeds were connected to her.

Unfortunately, in a very real sense, they were. Each day, she allowed him to continue his pursuit of power and influence by not revealing any of his dark, career-ending secrets.

She had taken his name because she wanted to show him that she was committed to him. Also, she was pleased that he wasn’t running away from his identity this time and wanted to show him that she supported that. Besides, the name “Granger” belonged to the life she would never have again, and the name “Green” was a lie and a fraud, concocted on the spur of the moment. This name was authentic, at least. It would be hypocritical to expect him not to use an assumed name while using one herself.

But right now, she hated every letter of it.

Her black cat, Sable, curled around her legs, rubbing against her comfortingly. She sank into the nearest chair and petted him. He gave a pleasant purr of contentment and lay down on the floor at her feet. It was very relaxing to have a pet, especially a fluffy, furry one.

Hermione forced her gaze past the salutation and reread the letter itself.

 

_As you undoubtedly know, my family’s petition to be re-seated on the Wizengamot was voted down by that estimable body. I regret that my father’s misdeeds eight years ago incurred such wrath, and I apologize on behalf of myself, my sister, my wife, and my cousins for the inexcusable conduct of our fathers toward you and your husband._

_Nonetheless, I have some concerns about the procedure. I have been informed that the vote of the Wizengamot on this matter was sealed. Moreover, the members have been prohibited from discussing their votes. Although I realize that secret ballots are normal for votes concerning the assignment of seats, this degree of enforced secrecy is highly irregular. I have examined records of Wizengamot votes on new seats and have not found a case of a “gag order” for over five centuries. You know, of course, that this includes the tumultuous time of persecution and the political controversy and upheaval of Wizarding Seclusion. I must inquire as to why a vote on the assignment of a new seat requires greater secrecy than the historical votes affecting our entire world._

_As you also know, Abraxas Malfoy is a close friend of my family, and a member in good standing of the Wizengamot. He informed me that the vote was almost ready to begin when he learned of a schedule change, and he had to rush to attend the session. Malfoy further inquired of Minister Tuft about this mishap. The Minister told him that all members of the court were duly informed of the time change and that she herself had written confirmation from each member passed to her from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Malfoy, however, insists that both he and Cantankerus Nott were unaware of the change. Nott, in fact, did miss the vote. As your husband is the new Head of Magical Law Enforcement, I entreat you to inform him of this. I am sure he is very busy, establishing himself in the post, but the possibility of intercepted letters and forgery is very concerning. I hope that the problem is simply an error by some worker in the office._

_Finally, I have been unable to discover whether established protocol was followed concerning Wizengamot members who had conflicts of interest and should therefore have recused themselves from the vote. Please understand that I am not casting aspersions upon you, your husband, or your allies in saying this. I simply wish to be assured that the vote was carried out with full due process to my family._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Orion Black_

 

Hermione set the parchment down, her heart pounding. She really didn’t like to think about this sort of thing, but it was in her face now.

It had been a difficult decision, and she had been torn between loyalty to Tom, disgust for Black’s pureblood supremacism and sense of entitlement, and—at the same time—the urge to forgive magnanimously, offer an olive branch to a political opponent, and put the sordid past behind her. At last she had simply abstained from the vote. Tom, she was sure, had voted against Black. Their allies—who could say? Vincent Rosier did not yet have a vote, and his father would have divided loyalties, with one child dependent on Tom’s patronage and another married to a Black. The vote, as Orion had written, was secret, and she did not know who voted in what way. She guessed that even Tom didn’t, since he had not expressed any irritation with her over her abstention. It was a secret ballot.

She also had a suspicion of exactly why Malfoy and Nott had not known about the time change, and it certainly was not office incompetence or interception of the letters. That Orion had underlined the word “forgery” was… troubling. She knew all too well what Tom was capable of, and that sort of stunt would be nothing to him. Did Orion suspect? His father and his cousin removed, Arcturus and Pollux Black, had hatched a plot in 1944 to forge evidence, and he might have learned about it by now from Arcturus. He could have emphasized the word because he was worried someone else had forged his return note, but it wasn’t as if Hermione could _ask_ him what he meant.

And yet… how _dare_ Orion. Did he not have the spine to write Tom himself? Clearly not. He was also pretty foolish to imagine that conducting a correspondence with _her_ would not incur Tom’s wrath. Tom’s possessiveness of his family (or “devotion,” as people called it sanguinely) was legendary in their social stratum. She had to keep this situation under control; if Orion got himself killed or imprisoned, Sirius would not be born. Hermione did not want her tampering with time to keep people she had known from existing. The idea was to give them better lives.

_It’s not fair that I always have to balance these things. Tidy up after Tom’s corrupt, dishonest maneuvers, and keep the future in mind at the same time. Nobody else has that kind of responsibility._

A cry sounded from the nursery, transmitted magically to the room. Hermione sighed and got up. Madeline was probably done with her nap. It was just as well that there would be something to distract her from this for a time, she supposed, as she went to tend to her child.

* * *

After a late-evening dinner, and after Madeline had been put to bed for the night, Hermione and Tom sat at the table in the family dining room with after-dinner drinks. She had told him that she needed to talk about something important with him.

The room really was not much less grand than the formal dining room that they rarely used except when guests were present. Tall, heavily draped windows punctuated one wall, and another wall was lined with cabinetry containing china, bottles of spirits, and various magical curios. A gaslit chandelier—well, Hermione supposed, it _had_ been gaslit when this house belonged to Muggles, but it of course was not now—dangled from the ceiling. All in all, the room was rather imposing. Hermione somewhat regretted not having this discussion in their cozy private sitting room instead.

Taking a deep breath, she drew the letter out of her robes and unfolded it on the table. “I got this today from Orion Black,” she said.

Tom’s face hardened at once at that name.

“It was about the Wizengamot vote on a seat for his family,” she explained.

“And what does he have to say?” Tom asked, his voice dangerously quiet. “Was he complaining about the outcome?”

“Well,” she hedged, _“sort_ of. He thinks….” She trailed off uneasily.

Tom sipped his drink and set it down on the table. The clatter of glass on wood made Hermione jump. He raised an eyebrow. “Just say it, Hermione.”

She took a deep breath. “He has questions about the vote, and your—actions.”

“My actions,” Tom repeated. _“What_ actions?”

“Tom, I have never received a letter from anyone about your… professional conduct… before. _Ever,”_ she emphasized. “But this one… I’m not saying that Orion should have written. He shouldn’t have. But what he says here… what he alleges….”

Tom glared at the offending piece of parchment, his brow darkening. “And just what does he allege?”

She stared back, unbowed. “Well, it wasn’t just a secret vote. You made the actual vote _tally_ secret, only announced the outcome, and ordered the Wizengamot not to reveal how they voted. That’s fact, not allegation, I know, but he says that was never done on a vote about granting a new seat—or reinstating one, in this case.”

“It was for the members’ own protection,” Tom said airily. “If enough of them talked, Black could figure out who voted against reinstatement. He could retaliate.”

Hermione knew very well that this could not be Tom’s actual rationale for the vote lockdown, but she decided to move to another issue. “What about the schedule change, and the Black allies not knowing about it?” She plunged forward. “Tom, did you forge letters from Malfoy and Nott to say they had received the notifications?”

He stared back challengingly. “That’s quite an accusation.”

“You did,” she said in awe. “You _did._ Tom—”

“What bloody _difference_ does it make?” he exploded. “Why do you _want_ people like that to have Wizengamot votes?”

“It’s not about what _I_ want!” Hermione exclaimed. “They _are_ Wizengamot members. They _have_ votes.”

“The only reason they do is because their _families_ have hereditary seats,” Tom snarled, clutching his wand as if it were a stress reliever. “They didn’t earn those seats. They didn’t get there based on merit. I did. You did. Even Dumbledore—he at least _deserves_ his seat. I don’t like him, but he is a great wizard. These people aren’t. There’s nothing exceptional about them. Why are you defending them?”

“I’m not saying I like the inherited seats, because I don’t, but it’s the law,” Hermione said. “You should push to change it instead—”

Tom laughed harshly and sipped his after-dinner drink. “Hermione, you are such an idealist.”

“That’s not an insult, you know. You are too, in your way.”

“All right—you’re _naïve._ Except that I don’t think you really are. You have to know that there would be so much resistance to that…. It’s not going to happen right now. It’s _not._ Even I couldn’t… maybe as Minister after several years… but not now.” He gazed at her with the look of a predator about to make a kill. “Besides, Hermione, Orion’s own family planned to forge actual _evidence_ against you when you were in school. Remember that? He has to know that by now. He has a lot of nerve to whine to _you_ about what happened with Malfoy and Nott.”

He had a point about that, Hermione realized. Orion did have some nerve to object to the possibility _(the reality,_ she thought grimly) that Tom had abused his new post to falsify signatures for mere acknowledgment letters, when his family had plotted to fake evidence about her for a _criminal_ matter. Maybe he thought she didn’t know about it. That idea, that patronizing notion, directed the storm of anger in her away from Tom.

“You shouldn’t have tried to prevent them from voting,” Hermione mumbled, somewhat defeatedly. She saw Tom’s point, but this was still a principle she wasn’t going to drop. “Or… if you were really determined to… then you should have recused yourself. It would have looked better.”

“Most of the hereditary members are related to the Blacks multiple times over. Malfoy and old Rosier were involved in Arcturus’s conspiracy—until they weren’t. Nott actually _dueled_ us. Where was the call for _them_ to recuse themselves? Why should we be the only ones?” Tom exclaimed. “Hermione, _whose side are you on?”_

That hurt. Did he really not trust her? Did he really doubt—? Hermione drew back as if slapped. “Tom, of course I’m on your side!”

He glowered defensively. “It sure doesn’t sound like it.”

She stared at him with wounded eyes. “It’s all right; I _know_ that you have done things like this before. I haven’t ever argued with you about it. It’s politics. I _get_ that. It’s not what I would do, but that’s why I’m glad you’re the one with that type of political job.”

Tom relaxed a little bit. He drained the rest of his whisky and set the glass down on the table.

“But this time, I’ve had it thrown in my face. _I_ was the one to get the letter from Black.”

“There is that,” Tom said, his eyebrows narrowing. “Orion Black sent a letter to you asking you to confront me, instead of coming directly to me. That gutless, cowardly, despicable—”

“I agree that Orion should have addressed his concerns to you, rather than—”

“Rather than trying to create discord in another wizard’s marriage?” he snarled. “He didn’t have the stones to confront me, but he sure had the _unmitigated_ presumption to try to come between us! And now we’ve argued, because of _him.”_ Fury written in every feature of his face, Tom got up and went to the liquor cabinet to pour himself another glass.

Hermione sighed. Tom was intensely possessive of their relationship; he always had been, and now, he was fixated upon a perceived threat to that to the exclusion of all else.

She banished the letter to a shelf. Holding the bottle in hand, Tom watched the note fly through the dining room, and then he returned his gaze to her. “Don’t answer him,” he growled, his eyes flashing dangerously crimson. “He wanted you to confront me. I’ll make damn sure he knows that you did just that.” He put the bottle up and stormed back to the table. He took a deep pull from the glass and blinked several times as it made his eyes water. Hermione winced at the added gleams of red from the refractive effect.

“Tom,” she sighed, “you really need to calm down and not do anything rash. I am on the Wizengamot myself, after all. He probably saw me as more approachable than you.”

“He has some nerve, considering what his father orchestrated—and what his good-for-nothing dead father-in-law _did_ to you! Why would he think _you_ would be any friendlier to his ‘cause’ than I am?” he sneered.

“He’s not his father—or father-in-law. You _know_ the reinstatement of his family would have been contingent upon Arcturus never holding the actual vote. I just—why do this? Prevent people from voting—or try to—and then make the tally secret and gag the members? Did you even win the vote, Tom?”

Tom breathed deeply, trying to control his anger, and looked her straight in the eye. “In fact, I did. I had four more nays. It was close. That was why I sealed it. If Nott had made it—and you and I had recused ourselves—that would have been a single-vote margin. I didn’t want Black finding that out.”

Hermione looked down, unable to meet his eyes for this admission. “It would’ve been a two-vote margin. I actually abstained from the vote.”

Tom stopped cold.

“You… didn’t vote with me. You _didn’t vote_ on returning a seat to Orion bloody Black,” he said, his voice rising. “After all that his family did to you—”

“I just said that he is not his father.”

Tom glared. “You can be so hypocritical sometimes. No—let me finish,” he said as she opened her mouth to object angrily. “You’re on my case every time I say something about Muggles—”

“I do _not_ jump on you _every time—”_

“I can hardly say anything about them without a quick ‘correction’ from you, or one of your sternly disapproving looks, or _some_ sort of response. But when it comes to giving a Wizengamot vote to someone who would use it against everything you want to do, and most of what I want to do—someone who thinks anyone who isn’t pureblood back to medieval times has no right to be in our world—you _abstained_. You wouldn’t take a position on _that!_ It’s enough to make me think you just have a problem with _me.”_

He was defensive and angry, but Hermione detected real hurt in his words. She paused, considering what he had said. _Had_ she been unduly hard on him?

With a rush of dismay, she realized that she did respond visibly when he made a comment about “Muggle” anything. It didn’t even have to be a venomous comment. He could simply refer to a subject as “Muggle”—Muggle entertainment, Muggle art, Muggle science—and she would object in some way.

 _It’s because I am trying to convince him that there are some things that are a shared human heritage,_ she thought. _Muggle science is just science, even if we can override some of it with magic. Our culture is based on Muggle culture, our art and architecture are based on Muggle art, and people need to stop pretending that they’re wholly separate. That’s all it’s about._

_On the other hand, it probably does come across as pedantic, self-righteous nagging… and focusing on something comparatively unimportant. I… have a tendency to do that sometimes, even though I know now that it’s counterproductive. And then when I tell him that I abstained… yes, I see his point._

He was staring at her darkly, his eyes flashing with anger.

“Tom,” she said in what she hoped was a conciliatory tone, “I see what you mean, and I’m sorry. I really don’t mean to be annoying about it. It’s just… one of our political goals is to be more realistic about Muggles. That was what we agreed on back in school. But I see that it would be hard on your nerves to always be reminded that not all Muggles are bad, or that something we have was influenced by their works, or that some topic is not ‘Muggle’ even though it’s almost all Muggles who study it. I understand.”

The anger in his expression cooled.

“I’ll try not to do it. As far as the vote is concerned, I was torn. A part of me wanted to move past it, but I didn’t want to enable a system I don’t support—giving him a seat strictly because his dad had one—and I didn’t want to be against you either. I didn’t! You supported and protected me during all of that, and it _matters_ to me, Tom. But—”

His eyebrows narrowed again. “There’s always a ‘but,’” he muttered.

“No buts on what I just said. I’ll try not to nag you anymore, and I never intended to make you think that I had a problem with you, or didn’t love you,” she said. “I just wish that you would… oh, how to say this.”

He gazed at her, waiting.

“You had four more votes.” She leaned forward and stared at him pleadingly. “Why the underhanded tricks? You didn’t have to. I think you _wanted_ to.”

“Excuse me?”

“I know that you get some kind of enjoyment out of making sure people _know_ you outmaneuvered them, even if it’s corrupt, as long as they can’t use it against you. You enjoy that as much as the maneuvering itself sometimes.”

He glowered at her. “And if I do, what of it?”

“You know what. When people suspect things, they talk. And _I_ hear about it.” Hermione hesitated before her last statement, but decided to go ahead with it. “The very fact that you’d _ever_ prefer that people know what you did—or even just suspect you—well, it means that you have more Gryffindor in you than you might want to acknowledge.”

Tom blinked. “Oh, you did not just say that.”

“I did.” She gave him a sideways smirk. “You said once that Gryffindor was the house of courage, bravado, and trying to prove a point.”

 _“If_ I do any such thing, it’s because I want there to be no doubt in their minds that it was my doing. If people thought it was only bad luck, they might decide to try again. Of course, I wouldn’t want anyone to have anything on me, so it would be best for them to know without being able to prove anything.”

“My point exactly.”

He glared but subsided.

“I really would rather not be dragged into it, though.”

“And I don’t want anyone doing that to you. I’ll make certain Black and his ‘friends’ know not to involve you.”

“Don’t do anything to him, Tom,” she pleaded. “He’s supposed to have sons—”

“Yes, yes, all the people you remember,” Tom said. He finished his second glass and smiled sinisterly at her. “Fortunately for these yet-unborn people—and the man himself—Orion’s just a nuisance. He’s obviously intimidated by me, so he won’t be hard to manage.”

Hermione shook her head in mild consternation, but she supposed this reassurance would have to do.

He got up from his chair and walked over to hers, standing behind her. She craned her neck to look at him as he ruffled her curly hair—and then his touch was gone. Her face fell slightly.

He met her eyes and smirked knowingly at her as he departed the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This scene continues later in a separate (Explicit) work called "Shattered Glass" that is included in this series (or accessible from my author profile). That one is not for everybody, though, so please look carefully over the list of tags before you decide to read it!


	6. A Bedtime Story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom’s retelling of “The Warlock’s Hairy Heart” is a bit different from the one in Beedle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s a bit of family fluff… of a sort.
> 
> In case you missed it, I posted an explicit one-shot as a separate story, “Shattered Glass.”

Hermione had long ago ceased to remind herself of the inherent bias that parents had in favor of their own children’s attributes. She had given that up: Madeline really _was_ a remarkable child. She had had her magical breakthrough six months ago, changing the color of her favorite doll’s hair to black to look like her own. Barely three years old, she was still almost reading. She had been memorizing books and stories for about a year, and she was right on the verge of making the leap.

She had also turned out to be a Parselmouth. Hermione was not _entirely_ surprised by that; the trait did seem to be highly dominant, and the only reason it had not spread beyond the Gaunts in the past was likely their own history of cousin marriage. But it was still startling to see her “perfect” little daughter hissing at the grass snakes that Tom summoned from the yard once he learned of her ability. She had no problem with Parseltongue; it wasn’t that, but there was something very isolating about not having the trait herself. They had only known about it for a couple of months, but even in that period of time, the little girl had been spending much more time with her father and his “pet” snakes, and less with Hermione and her cat.

Perhaps it was just novelty, Hermione supposed. Eventually it would become routine and unexceptional, and after all, how interesting could snake conversation really be? It probably _was_ just novelty.

Tom’s own behavior was far less likely to be a short-term phenomenon. She had known that he would be intensely possessive of their children, and he had been ever since Madeline was born. Nothing about their own relationship had changed, but since he learned that his daughter had one of his most prized traits, Hermione had almost never had a moment alone with her. _He_ had. He had been devoted ever since her birth, but they had really bonded over this shared quality lately. It was hard for her to object too much to it, because it was so nice to see him caring about an additional person, but it did hurt on some level. They did not yet hold private conversations in that language, at least not in front of Hermione, but she had a dark feeling that it would happen eventually.

Hermione was now expecting their second child, and although she would never admit it to him, she hoped this one would not “speak it.”

She stared at the fire in the family sitting room and reached over to pet the cat, who considerately did not park himself on her lap, but instead sat on the cushion next to her. Sable gave a comforting purr. Out of the corner of her eye, she could still see Tom watching carefully as Madeline played.

The little girl yawned and flopped her toys on the floor.

“That looks like bedtime to me,” Tom remarked at once, getting up from his chair.

Surprisingly, Madeline did not put up a fight. “Could I have a story?” she pleaded.

“Of course,” Hermione said.

The child looked from one parent to the next, contemplating which one she would rather have read to her. It was a difficult choice. Mum knew far more stories than Daddy, but Daddy’s stories made her blood curdle in a really nice way.

“What are you going to read me?” she demanded of Hermione.

Trying to suppress her amusement at her child’s assertive, demanding nature—rather like both her parents, Hermione had to admit—she smiled. “I had thought about reading from a book with all sorts of talking animals—including a snake. And a little boy who lives with them.”

She frowned adorably. “What about you, Daddy?”

For a moment, Tom looked deeply insecure. Hermione knew why. Despite being raised by Muggles, he had never learned much of their folklore and cultural heritage as a child. The orphanage had not had the funds to spare on “frivolous” literature. He had been almost too old to be seen at Hogwarts reading wizarding children’s books, too. What he knew, from both worlds, he had picked up later.

“I thought I might tell you your favorite story, about the warlock and his heart,” he said.

Madeline’s features twisted. “That’s not my favorite story anymore! It’s boring now.”

Tom considered for a moment. “Well,” he said, “I could tell you about a different wizard. You’ve never heard that story before.”

Madeline’s grey eyes lit up. “Would you read it to me, Daddy?”

Hermione tried to control her disappointment. She would get the chance later, she told herself. This was temporary. And, she had to admit, her curiosity was piqued. She really had no idea what story Tom was referring to.

He picked her up and carried her to her bedroom, Hermione trailing behind. Once she was settled in her bed, he sat down on the chair next to it. Hermione stood in the shadows, watching. She suddenly realized that he did not have a book in hand.

Madeline noticed this as well. “Where’s the book, Daddy?”

“This story isn’t in a book,” Tom said, smiling, “though I could write it down if you like it.”

 _Did he compose it himself?_ Hermione thought. That was… unexpected. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth at the idea.

“The story that you know so well is ‘The Warlock’s Hairy Heart,’” Tom said. _“This_ story is called ‘The Wizard’s Hidden Heart.’ Although its name is similar, the story is different.”

Madeline smiled. Hermione suddenly had a spark of misgiving.

“There was once a wizard. He was very powerful, and so he had many enemies who were jealous of him. He was a _Dark_ wizard,” he added, prompting his daughter’s eyes to widen. “And these enemies were very bad people. They wanted to kill him and his wife.”

Madeline gasped.

“The Dark wizard had a huge library of books, and he read through them to find ways to protect himself and his wife, and keep his enemies from succeeding. Eventually he found a book that talked about a spell that would let him hide his own heart in a box. You see, if his heart was not in his body, he couldn’t be killed.”

 _Oh, Tom, really?_ Hermione thought with dismay. She had a bad feeling that she knew where this was going….

“The wizard considered the plan. He talked to a… friend of his about the idea. The friend didn’t think he should do it. Then one day an old man with a beard, who had heard of the plan, came up to the wizard. The old man told him that if he took out all of his heart, he wouldn’t be able to love his wife anymore and wouldn’t even care if his enemies killed her. He was thinking of the warlock in the other story, you see.”

 _That was obviously Dumbledore, and that’s not how… so maybe this is just a story after all,_ Hermione thought.

“Was it true?” Madeline asked in a small voice, her eyes wide.

“You’ll find out,” Tom said with a wink. He continued the story. “The wizard’s wife was worried when she heard this from the old man. She urged him not to do it. But the Dark wizard knew that his enemies would win if he didn’t do something, so he put his mind to the task. He decided to take out only _part_ of his heart instead of the whole thing.” He leaned in conspiratorially, trying hard not to smirk at the child— _our innocent little girl,_ Hermione thought with a resurgence of irritation. “Having even just a piece of his heart outside his body would make it impossible for the wizard’s enemies to kill him… as long as they didn’t find the piece of heart and kill it first.”

Hermione could hardly stand hearing him tell this “story” to Madeline, but at this point she had to hear how it would end—even though she was sure she already did. _The manipulative son of a—_

“The wizard performed the spell to take out part of his heart, and he put it in a magical box. He quickly realized that his plan had worked: His feelings for his wife did not change at all.”

“So the warlock in the other story should have done that instead!” Madeline exclaimed. In the shadows, Hermione grimaced.

“Exactly,” Tom said. “The wizard’s wife was angry with him for taking the risk, but she decided it was all right when he still cared for her just as much as he had before.”

He gave Hermione an insolent wink that Madeline did not notice. She wanted to storm into the room and slap him.

“Their house was very safe, but one night the wizard and witch had to stay with other people, and these people had not made their house as safe. One of their enemies broke into his room.”

“Did he—” Madeline began to ask in an awed tone.

“The other man was a wizard, but he carried a Muggle knife with him. He wanted to kill the wizard’s wife with it instead of with magic. The Dark wizard realized that there was an intruder, so he rolled in bed and covered his wife’s body with his own. In the dark, the enemy could not tell the difference. He raised the knife—”

Madeline held her breath.

“—and stabbed the Dark wizard in his bed, over and over.”

“Oh, no,” Madeline whispered. “Did it work? The heart box?”

 _Oh, good God,_ Hermione thought. That sounded too damned similar, and it was just wrong to hear from their child. _Tom, you are going to hear about this from me later._

“It did,” Tom assured her grandly. “The wizard was not killed. The enemy then realized that he had stabbed the Dark wizard instead of his wife. He believed that the Dark wizard had just died in vain and he would kill the wizard’s wife anyway, so he pushed the Dark wizard away and raised his knife once more.”

Madeline held her breath again.

“However… the Dark wizard had only pretended to be dead. He sat upright—and that shocked the enemy, I assure you. The enemy stopped in his tracks, so surprised to see the Dark wizard alive that he couldn’t even think of what to do next. The Dark wizard raised his own wand and pointed it at his enemy—and killed him with magic rather than with any Muggle weapon.”

Madeline giggled. “Serves him right.”

“Exactly so,” Tom agreed. “The Dark wizard’s wife then sat upright and turned to him. ‘I’m glad we were prepared,’ she told him. ‘That was very clever.’”

Hermione almost strode into the room then and there, but she managed to restrain herself.

“When word got around to the rest of the Dark wizard’s enemies that he could not be killed, they decided to stop trying to. Some of them fled. Others switched sides and offered their support to the witch and wizard. They accepted it—though naturally, they never entirely trusted those people. And nobody ever learned about the… heart box,” he said, biting his lip hard to avoid smirking, “except the Dark wizard’s wife. The end.”

“I like that story,” Madeline declared in satisfaction as he leaned down to give her a quick peck on her forehead. “That Dark wizard was much smarter than the warlock. Please write it down, Daddy.”

“Certainly,” he said. “I’ll make a little book just for you, and I might even draw some pictures for you.”

“Thank you, Daddy!”

He smiled fondly at her. “Good night.”

As soon as he closed the door to her room, Hermione whirled on him in the hall, pushing him against the wall. She glared at him.

“Not a word,” he said. The smirk that he had tried to hide from Madeline now adorned his face.

“You’re trying to… to corrupt her, to make her think like you!”

“It was just a children’s story.”

“Oh, sure it was!”

“Children don’t have to have moral instruction in everything they read,” Tom said with a scoff. “In fact, most of them don’t even _want_ that. They want to be entertained. They want their imaginations to be piqued.”

“That’s not the point!”

“No, I think that’s _exactly_ the point,” he said. “She wanted a bloodcurdling tale, and unlike the original, that one didn’t moralize at her. She’s only three, but she’s smart, and she could tell when a story did that. I think that’s why she was tired of the original. Sometimes people just like a well-told story, even one that lets characters win without being pure, shining white.”

Hermione fell silent. That was true enough. As a child herself, Hermione had not minded fables and moral tales, but she had eventually come to realize that it was because she had not cultivated her imagination as freely as she might have. As she had grown up, she had come to see that life usually didn’t turn out like a fable, and the kind of literature she had come to appreciate was closer now to pure storytelling.

“All right,” she said. “You have a point with that. But don’t think I don’t know what that ‘story’ actually was. You could hardly keep the smirk off your face. It wasn’t merely something you imagined by yourself to entertain her.”

He shrugged. “She’s _three.”_

“For now.”

He placed his arm around her waist. “Come now, Hermione. I told a new story to our child, which she liked. If you insist on seeing it as more than that, then take comfort in knowing that there will be all sorts of people—from yourself to the crooked-nosed future Headmaster—who will have the opportunity to shape her views. I’m merely offering another perspective.”

Hermione wanted to be exasperated with him, but the annoyance from a few minutes ago was melting rapidly. Even though she knew that he was absolutely trying to prime Madeline to be tolerant of the Dark Arts, his points about stories were valid ones.

She walked with him to their bedroom, her right hand involuntarily settling on the slight bump that was already apparent. She couldn’t, ultimately, control what her children thought or did.   Neither could he. Madeline—and this child who was not yet born—would have to decide that for themselves.


	7. Failure at the Highest Level

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Head of International Magical Cooperation thinks he is well-positioned to become Minister. Then suddenly he finds himself in a political whirlwind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter makes reference to a number of details from Pottermore. I don’t personally consider Pottermore canon—only the seven books (minus “19 years later” :P)—but I’ll freely use things from it that I like. I am also making the Cold War into a matter that affects wizards.

_1957._

“Is everything in order, Minister?” Tom Riddle, Head of Magical Law Enforcement, asked Wilhelmina Tuft.

The aging Minister smiled. “I think so. The international Portkeys have arrived, and Chancellor Dietzsch has confirmed the time and place of arrival for us. Your own preparations are in order, as well?”

“They are.”

“Well, good,” she said. “I can think of no one I would rather have as Acting Minister while I am away—other than my own son, of course, but I’m sure you understand.” She glanced at Tom with some embarrassment.

Minister Tuft and her son, Ignatius, the Head of International Magical Cooperation, were going to Germany— _West_ Germany, Tom amended in thought—to discuss political negotiations for the ongoing project to secure magical refugees from behind the Iron Curtain. The wizarding leaders there were unofficial and underground, not even informing the Muggle Premiers of their existence due to the proclaimed hostility of Communism toward anything “supernatural”—and the fear that, despite that, Communist states might secretly make use of magical persons for their own ends. For that reason there was a magical Iron Curtain too, a multinational ward to prevent Apparition across the borders. The allied Western governments assisted those who wanted out but did not have a magical means of transportation. Those who did not want to leave were questioned at great length under Veritaserum, and then subjected to Legilimency, to discern their loyalties—Tom’s idea. Ignatius Tuft had seen that suggestion as an encroachment on his job responsibilities and an imposition on his familial relationship, but the Minister had adopted it.

While abroad, the Tufts were also going to pay a visit to Nurmengard, the prison where Gellert Grindelwald was imprisoned. Tom smirked to himself at that thought, but he quickly transformed the expression into a smile before the Minister could notice. “Thank you, Minister. How is he, incidentally?”

“He is much more himself,” Tuft said. “Much more alert. I think the symptoms must have been exhaustion.”

“I’m glad to hear that he is better, and I hope both of you enjoy your trip.”

Tom’s everyday diction in public was usually perfectly civil and pleasant, but with this statement there was a faint hint of malice that he did not hide. He winced at once at the slip.

Minister Tuft caught it. She turned around with a deeply apologetic look on her face. “I’m sorry, Tom,” she said. “I realize—seeing Grindelwald, especially—and the statements of that vicious _Prophet_ muckraker Cuffe about ‘snubbing’ you—”

“It’s really quite all right, Minister,” Tom said at once.

“The press would have wondered if I had taken the Head of Law Enforcement instead of International Magical Cooperation on this trip,” she said apologetically. “And Ignatius himself… well, he understands that a good idea is a good idea, but I think he wishes he’d come up with that one, since your domestic policies have been so popular and successful.”

Tom smiled. “I understand, and I really have no hard feelings. Someone needs to hold down the fort here, too, after all.”

The Minister smiled back and took her leave, departing Tom’s office. Once she was gone, he cracked his knuckles and smirked in satisfaction.

_Soon. Very soon._

* * *

Although he had only been in office for four years, Tom had accomplished a lot, and his domestic policies _had_ been quite popular. His predecessor, Bob Ogden, had retired from the Ministry on a high note, pushing through a plan allowing non-magical families of magical children to be informed of the child’s abilities shortly after birth, rather than at age eleven. Hermione had suggested it in her _Daily Prophet_ interview after the “defeat” of Grindelwald. She had been a bit miffed when Tom was given credit for the idea in later _Prophet_ articles, so he’d had to set the official record straight, but the Ministry wonks and journalists had merely responded with knowing smiles and winks when he did. Hermione had not been impressed with that patronizing either, though she hadn’t blamed him for it.

It seemed to be working well, at least. The Ministry had a large office of personnel who were well-versed in Muggle relations and in child development, and they had been assisting the families.

Once officially Head, Tom had managed to cut off a growing source of discontent at its knees while solving a long-standing problem at the same time. The ideologues in the two traditional political factions did not like his strategy, but the general, pragmatic population supported it, and that was more than enough.

Tom had expanded the rights of documented Squibs in Britain. There were not that many of them, but they had been getting organized to protest their legal status. Tom had pushed through laws creating an official record of Squibs and prohibiting the Ministry from modifying their memories or confiscating their magical property without the same due process given to witches and wizards. He had ordered the Leaky Cauldron to modify its ward to allow all documented Squibs entry to Diagon Alley. Finally, the law protected them from discrimination in housing and in employment at jobs where magical ability was not necessary to do the work. In exchange for wizarding-world protection, they were subject to the same laws wizards were concerning the Statute of Secrecy.

That was not met with much opposition from anyone except the most hardline blood purists. Orion Black, ever a thorn in Tom’s side, had declared that Squibs wouldn’t be a “problem” if the wizarding world were pureblooded, but Tom had destroyed that argument with the information—obtained by Vincent Rosier—that Orion himself had a great-uncle who was a Squib. Having too thinly diluted magical blood—or “incomplete magical genes,” as Hermione would say—was one way to be a Squib, but it appeared that long-term inbreeding could produce genetic flaws, just as it did among Muggles and animals. In wizards, one such flaw could be weak or absent magic—or at least, that was what magical researchers were finding. So much for Black’s assertion.

Tom’s other domestic policies were a bit more controversial among fellow politicians, though not the general public. After establishing expanded rights for Squibs of well-documented wizarding ancestry, he then granted Squib status to the immediate families of Muggle-born witches and wizards. That had not been quite so popular. The blood-purity supporters had screamed that these people ought to have to prove they actually _were_ the descendants of wizards, since there was the possibility that one of the two parents of a Muggle-born might in fact be just a Muggle, with no wizard ancestry at all.

 _“Researchers in the organization Advance and the Department of Mysteries, building on German research, have determined that it is almost impossible for wizarding offspring to result from a union of a true Muggle and a Squib who is third-generation or later,”_ he had stated in a press conference. _“It is very, very likely that both parents of these witches and wizards have some wizard ancestry, and since we haven’t even kept records of Squibs until now—let alone before Seclusion—the demands of the Isolationist faction cannot be reasonably fulfilled.”_

Some of the Muggle-protective Reformists, including Septimus Weasley, had also voiced concerns over granting full wizarding-world rights to people who might already be established in the Muggle world. They were worried that they might tell their Muggle acquaintances and co-workers the secret. Tom had an answer for that too, and one that was rather not as polite.

 _“This criticism, from a group of people who have been telling ‘Muggle’ parents and siblings about their magical family members, but have not been taking_ any _precautions whatsoever with them?”_ he had said mockingly. _“My opponents have not instituted any provision for formal check-ups of these families, nor do they have a procedure for dealing with security breaches—other than Obliviation of the outside Muggles who were told. Under former policies, the families were in a legal no-man’s land, technically not even entitled to know of their magical child or sibling’s situation, not officially required to observe Seclusion, and protected only by custom and pro-family sentiment. Now, thanks to my laws, they have both the rights and, importantly, the_ responsibilities _of other documented Squibs.”_

The argument had been designed to appeal to the Reformists’ desire to “protect” non-magical people from witches and wizards. Most of the recalcitrant Reformists had been convinced by the logic of enveloping these people under a well-defined system of laws. Anyway, Tom had long suspected that Weasley in particular was resentful of Tom’s ascent to the top of the Law Enforcement department and his own demotion after the war on Grindelwald had concluded and the Wartime Operations office Weasley had formerly headed was not needed.

Tom had another proposal he wanted to make into law, but he had decided it was not yet time for that. He had laid the groundwork for it, between Ogden’s final law and his own system for Muggle-born families, but he didn’t want to do too much at once. He also wanted other people to make the call for it themselves, and he was sure that the established policies had made that inevitable. He was going to remove restrictions on underage wizardry. It already was unenforceable in homes with an adult witch or wizard present, but others would soon be free as well. The Ministry already watched the neighborhoods of Muggle-raised children strictly enough to detect _what_ spells were cast in the area; Tom planned to lift the precision and instead set up communications with the parents—now official Squibs, they were allowed to use the Floo—so they could rapidly inform the Ministry if a problem arose. It was a matter of time before the “loyal subjects” who benefited from his reforms clamored for such a system, and like a benevolent king, he would merely oblige.

But for now, this year, he had begun a wizarding fostering and adoption system, with volunteer couples investigated and registered as potential caretakers. He wished there had been such a system in place during his childhood. Anything would have been better than being raised in an orphanage full of unwanted, underbred, mostly illegitimate Muggle brats, but being raised by wizards would have been best. He considered it contemptible that his mother had not used magic to save her life even for his sake. Hermione had explained once that _Dumbledore_ believed she was very tired and ill, and had not wanted to be a witch anymore, but he had been unmoved. _He_ certainly wouldn’t choose to die and leave his children without a parent if he could prevent it, and neither would Hermione—though she had not yet taken that to its logical conclusion. He was determined to give his own children the perfect ideal family he’d never known, but he could do _something_ for any magical child.

The plan required the Hogwarts Quill, and Tom was initially concerned that the crooked-nosed old codger with custody of it would rebuff him out of personal dislike. He had, to his surprise, been mistaken. Dumbledore had supported the idea. When Headmaster Dippet died later in the year, Dumbledore had become Headmaster, and Slughorn Deputy Head.

Hermione had seemed surprised by that. He had questioned her, and apparently in her original timeline, old Sluggy had remained a mere professor. His promotion was probably in large part due to the fact that he was the mentor of two of the most influential young people in the wizarding world.

The foster system had been used so far only for a pair of four-year-old twins plucked from a Ukrainian state orphanage. It was an excellent photo op: the grandmotherly Minister Tuft, the dashing and photogenic Tom, the Ukrainian wizarding representative with the purposely blurred face, and the pretty little witches, saved from an oppressive Muggle government and brought to a free wizarding society to live in a magical family. Tom was pleased, both because magical children were saved from Muggles and because it helped him for his system to look good.

But before Tom could do much more, he would have to become Minister. As an eighteen-year-old, he had regarded the former Minister, Leonard Spencer-Moon, as a rival, but he realized now that he had played his hand against Spencer-Moon too soon. He had been an effective and popular war leader, but after the capture of Grindelwald—and, Tom had to acknowledge it, after Tom’s own problems with Arcturus Black that year and his determination to dirty the Minister’s integrity by association, Spencer-Moon had not remained in office more than four more years. Wilhelmina Tuft had ascended, which wouldn’t have been a problem in and of itself, but her Merlin-cursed son Ignatius was far too willing to capitalize on her name, and he very clearly intended to take the post in a couple of years.

He was the biggest obstacle to Tom’s ambition right now. Everyone knew that Tom wanted the top post; Tom had seen no value in hiding the fact. Even if he had, Slughorn’s enormous network and gregarious boasting about his old favorites would have made it impossible to hide. Now that it was an open secret that Tom wanted to be the next Minister, if someone else got the job, it would be seen as a defeat. It would be a huge blow. And Tom was not going to let that happen.

* * *

It was a pleasant Saturday, and Tom was enjoying the weekend with Hermione and their two children, Madeline and Virgil. Madeline was his daughter in every way: powerful, intelligent, confident, a leader, and a little ruthless in her logic. There was no doubt in Tom’s mind where she would be Sorted. She had also, somewhat to his bemusement, taken an interest in flying, of all things. For a seven-year-old, she wasn’t half bad. Tom had not really considered it until recently, but he realized he might have a future Slytherin Chaser in his house.

Virgil was harder for him to understand, but he supposed that the three-and-a-half-year-old was like his mother, even despite being black-haired and a Parselmouth like the rest of the family. He didn’t much care to speak to snakes and preferred to pet Hermione’s now-senior black part-kneazle. He could not yet read, but he was close, and he really enjoyed his mother’s storytime. He was quiet and imaginative, and Tom supposed that in his own way, he had leadership qualities, though a different sort. When the siblings played together, it was usually the boy who developed most of their imaginary world. Tom was not at all sure that Virgil would follow family tradition when he went to Hogwarts. That thought bothered him a lot less than he had ever supposed it would, though.

The two children were right now pretending that there were kingdoms of fairies and doxies in the garden back of the house, and that the two species were having to unite against the Red Caps that they imagined lived in the fountain—no, the _bog,_ as Virgil would insist, Tom thought with some affection. _“Affection,” fancy that,_ he reflected.

He and Hermione were seated in wicker chairs, observing them and lightly reading, when he received word about the Tufts’ foreign trip. A messenger bird dropped a letter atop the policy paper he was reading. It had a lime green envelope, which signified urgency without being a Howler.

Hermione looked up, concerned at the sight. “That can’t be good,” she said.

Tom slit the envelope and regarded the letter with a studied frown.

 

_Mr. Riddle,_

_If this arrives in time, I request your presence at a secure Floo briefing at 1445. It is about a complication that has arisen on your colleagues’ trip. I apologize sincerely if this has disrupted any activities you have planned this weekend._

_Thank you,_

_Hildegarde Dietzsch_

_Chancellor of Magic, German Federal Republic_

 

He suppressed the smirk that wanted to form on his face and looked up at Hermione. “I doubt it is,” he said. “The German Chancellor wants me for a Floo briefing. I gather something has gone wrong.” He checked his pocket watch, the same one that Hermione had given him for his eighteenth birthday. The letter had arrived in time, but without much to spare if he had been anywhere but his home. The appointed time was thirty minutes away.

Her face fell. “I hope everyone is all right and that the Muggle Communists haven’t… discovered anything.”

“So do I.” It wasn’t a lie, he supposed. He got up and kissed her. “I’d better get to the Ministry.”

* * *

Dietzsch was a stern, no-nonsense middle-aged German witch. Having played for several years as a Beater for the German national Quidditch team, in the war against Grindelwald’s forces she had defended a group of hapless pureblood functionaries from an attack on the equivalent of the Wizengamot. Grindelwald’s opponents had romanticized the story as a tale of heroism and two sides coming together in a terrible war, since Dietzsch had saved the politicians’ lives despite being a half-blood and having previously been vocally, publicly opposed to their blood-purity beliefs. She had gone on to fight as a soldier in the war and had received Dark Arts injuries that ended her Quidditch career. After that she had accepted one of the numerous offers of patronage in politics.

Her face stared out at Tom from the secure Floo connection in his private office, clearly seething—though not at him. Minister Tuft and Ignatius were next to her, looking extremely embarrassed and troubled.

“I had best explain this quickly and succinctly,” she said in stilted tones, clearly not very comfortable with a second language. “The International Cooperation delegate”—she cast a glare of disgust at Ignatius Tuft, which was somehow amplified by the green fire—“was disarmed of his wand while in Nurmengard.”

Ignatius broke in. “I swear to you, it wasn’t my fault! I was under the Imperius Curse!”

“Ignatius!” Minister Tuft scolded. The witch turned to Dietzsch apologetically.

The German woman continued, her voice icy. “Grindelwald obtained his wand and used it to break the ward on his window. He leapt from the cell and Disapparated while falling.”

“He escaped?” Tom exclaimed. He narrowed his eyebrows.

“This must mean to you the same thing that it means to me,” Dietzsch snarled, with another glare of disdain for the Tufts. “It will mean that to anyone who fought his forces. What is worse, we cannot apprehend him now. By the time we retrieved the old map of his bases that we used in the war, the name of one of the bases had vanished from this map.”

Tom breathed in deeply, his eyes widening.

“Yes,” Dietzsch said grimly, “it is a base that we know was in the… Carpathian, in eastern Czechoslovakia, though we can no longer think of its name, and we now believe that he has hid himself away there under the Fidelius Charm. Your country’s Minister was discussing the international Apparition ward with her son when the wand was taken, so Grindelwald learned of that too.” She shot yet another venomous glare at them. “He must have Apparated to the very border and crossed it by other means, then Apparated to his mountain base.”

Tom kept the excitement off his face. “Was he able to free any other prisoners?”

“He was not, but what is our concern is that he will use this base to compete with our allied efforts to rescue our people from the Muggle Communists and create a new following among those he protects.” Dietzsch seemed too angry to continue.

Minister Tuft spoke up, her voice low and defeated. “If he had chosen to hide somewhere in a Western nation, we could have engaged that country’s wizarding government to put a wide perimeter around his hideout even if we could not bring him into custody, putting him under permanent house arrest, at least. But, as we all know, there _are_ no official wizarding authorities in the Muggle Soviet bloc states anymore, just unofficial leaders who use pseudonyms and are concerned mainly with protecting their populations from Muggle authorities—and getting refugees safely to the West.” She looked sadly at Tom.

“So… they won’t have the resources to hunt down Gellert Grindelwald… and we certainly cannot ally with the Muggles in those countries to do it, considering what else we’re trying to achieve,” Tom finished, forcing his face into a glum expression.

“We cannot.”

Ignatius was bursting to defend himself. “I _was_ under Imperius. As soon as Grindelwald Disapparated, I felt different—”

“How could _Grindelwald_ have put you under Imperius?” Minister Tuft exclaimed.

“I meant he might have lifted it. Someone else could have put me under it. I did feel different,” the wizard insisted. “Like I’d been half-awake, and I suddenly woke up.”

“Watching the greatest war criminal of our time _escape_ would wake anyone up!” Dietzsch exploded.

“Chancellor Dietzsch, Ignatius was suffering from exhaustion for about a week before we arrived,” the elderly witch said.

“Then he should not have come,” Dietzsch said coldly.

Tom was impassively watching the Floo faces argue. He cleared his throat, and all three faces turned to him.

“Is there anything I might do?” he asked. “I suppose the press will have to know, unfortunately.”

“I intend to inform them as soon as this meeting is over,” said Tuft grimly. “I won’t put that responsibility on you. It should be my own. For what it’s worth—and I know that is not much—I apologize on behalf of my family, to you”—she inclined her head at Dietzsch’s—“and to you as well, Tom.”

There did not seem to be much else to say. They stiffly took their leave, and the Floo connection closed. Tom was alone again.

 _“Yes!”_ He pumped his fist in the air as he exulted. He was gripping his wand, so a shower of silver sparks glittered to the floor.

* * *

_Three days later._

Tom gazed at the headlines.

_“Grindelwald Escapes Nurmengard, Ministry Invokes State Secrets About Suspected Location!”_

_“Minister and Son Cause Humiliating International Incident, Enrage Allies!”_

_“EXCLUSIVE: Ignatius Tuft Ran a Ministry Department for a Week Before Claiming Imperius!”_

_“TICK-TOCK: Minister Tuft’s Days Numbered?”_

Tom smirked at that last headline, setting down the newspaper. Her days were numbered, all right. He was on the Wizengamot and was definitely keeping an ear open to what they were saying, and there was no doubt of it. Her son had already been forced to resign. With the perfect hindsight that so many people often found they had, wizards and witches throughout Britain were murmuring that he had always been ineffective as a Department Head, shamelessly trying to take credit for the efforts across the Iron Curtain when it had been their allies’ idea—and the only _children_ resettled in Britain were there due to the Law Enforcement Head’s visionary policy. He had only obtained his post in the first place because of who his mum was, they asserted.

With the man’s reputation now shredded, not many people believed he was actually under Imperius, and those who did admit it as a possibility held him in disdain for allowing it to happen—and his mother as well, for taking him on a sensitive international trip while there were questions about his mental fitness at the moment.

 _“Why didn’t the Minister have a Healer see him—privately, of course?”_ one of Tom’s own staff had carped in the office.

In the secrecy of the Wizengamot chamber, other damning facts had come out that the press did not know. Chancellor Dietzsch had informed the members that the Minister and her son had been chatting about the boundaries of the Apparition ward in Grindelwald’s hearing. The Wizengamot had instantly come to the same alarmed conclusion that the dignitaries had.

“We’ll have a new war on our hands thanks to this!” one excitable wizard had burst out.

“Not if we’re _prudent,”_ a gruff, greying Crawford Rosier had said pointedly, looking at Tom.

“There is that,” agreed a plump, cheerful-looking witch. “And we’d be getting two great minds for the price of one, as it were!” She grinned across the chamber at Hermione.

It was quite unlikely that they would have a new war, Tom thought, folding the newspaper. He took a sip of coffee. He had definitely done his best to ensure that Grindelwald wouldn’t pose a threat to him personally. He couldn’t expose Tom’s past espionage; Hermione held that Secret, and the wizard may not have known who engineered his escape. Even if he did suspect it was Tom, he was prevented from ever saying why he did. Tom’s communication with Grindelwald prior to the escape had, naturally, been very limited—there was a traitorous guard in the prison who believed he was passing a message from an old lieutenant, since Tom knew the old hierarchy and secret phrases of the “Leader”—but it had told the Dark wizard what to do when Ignatius Tuft made his appearance.

His options after that were actually fairly circumscribed. In his defeat, Grindelwald had expressed contrition for his violent methods and blamed the Elder Wand in part. Tom’s hope was that the man _would_ assist in protecting magical residents of the Soviet bloc, because there were many who did not want to leave their homes and Tom was legitimately concerned that the Muggle Communists would get hold of them, turn them, and use them as spies. Grindelwald had always been less selfish than Tom himself was, more devoted to a cause. There was a slight risk that he could raise a new army in Eastern Europe, with the same rallying cry as before—“the Muggles are a danger to us”—but there was not a real Muggle war going on, and it seemed that most of these people just wanted to live in peace. Tom hoped Grindelwald could turn into some sort of underground leader for them—probably under a new name, though.

If he chose instead to threaten the person who had arranged for his freedom, then Tom would do what Hermione had stopped him from doing in 1945. And he would not hesitate this time.

* * *

“Tom, I need to know something,” Hermione said.

It was the day of the Wizengamot vote to choose a new Minister, and Tom was very confident of the outcome even though he and Hermione were prohibited from voting with his name in the pool. He sighed as he slipped on his robe. Of course she had figured out what he had done. She was too clever not to.

He fastened the clasp and raised a waiting eyebrow at her.

She stared back at him. “The theory that Tuft was under Imperius… and the fact that Grindelwald escaped… I need to know if you, well….”

“Do you _really_ want to know that?” he replied quietly.

She looked away, closing her eyes at the implicit confirmation. “Oh, Tom.”

“You told me yourself that Tuft would become Minister after his mum, and would be a disaster.”

“That was in a timeline in which you were… not a productive leader.”

“He’s still an unqualified fool. He was aiming for it, and he might have succeeded. And you can’t say that _he_ would be a better Minister than I will. He’s no visionary.”

“You have done good things for the wizarding world,” Hermione conceded. “But Tom, what if Grindelwald turns on you? He tried to take over the world once.”

“Then I’ll take care of the problem,” he said darkly, “but I don’t think he will. I’ve already written a message that I’ll send to the boundaries of his Carpathian base, once I’m Minister. It says that I will leave him be if he doesn’t make war on magical governments again, and it suggests that he alter his appearance, adopt a new name, and help protect wizards in Eastern Europe instead.”

Hermione sighed. It might work. She certainly hoped so.

* * *

“Witches and wizards, the Minister for Magic.”

Tom’s mouth was set in an expression that was half smirk and half genuine smile as he ascended the stage, hand raised in acknowledgment of the applause the crowd was giving him. He walked behind the podium that was emblazoned with the large letter M and the raised, casting wand, the emblem of the Ministry of Magic. Hermione walked closely behind him, a partially forced smile on her face. Behind her trailed their two children, holding their mother’s hands and looking wide-eyed. The crowd declared its adoration with loud coos and “aww”s.

Positioned behind the podium, Tom enveloped Hermione in his arms and kissed her full on the mouth. The group of journalists and Ministry folk went wild at that, delighted to see such a manifestly happy marriage and perfect family.

The new Minister flashed a dazzling smile and began to speak.


	8. Violet Skies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom can put together a romantic evening when he wants to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very sorry for the delay, and I'll try to get scenes out sooner than this from now on. We’re temporarily jumping back in time for this one. I’ve got a small political miniplot and two multi-chapter big ones coming up, but I felt like writing a nice couple moment for now. You’ll see why when I get to the big political plots.
> 
> Thank you to [bainsidhe](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bainsidhe), who has lived in London before, for the information about this part of town.

_June 1948._

Hermione walked down the corner where Diagon Alley met Knockturn Alley. She paused at the intersection and glanced at the corner building contemplatively. This building, long used for assorted fly-by-night businesses of a decidedly shady character, had recently been renovated for more respectable use. A bar called the Serpents’ Chalice now occupied the site and seemed likely to do so for the foreseeable future. The proprietor, who was somewhat disturbingly from the Prince family, had named it in honor of Tom and Hermione. In fact, he was the very wizard who had attempted to buy Hermione drinks in Hogsmeade one weekend in seventh year after the capture of Gellert Grindelwald. He had been annoying that day, but apparently he had retained his admiration for them despite being rebuffed.

Hermione and Tom visited the place regularly, both as a couple and as part of a larger group. It was classy and low-key, clearly aiming for a more sedate clientele than the Leaky Cauldron or the pubs of Hogsmeade, and Tom found that fact extremely useful for a reason of his own. The bar had become the new meeting place for his coterie.

To Hermione’s relief, the new group was not strictly a duplicate of the old Knights of Walpurgis from school, the people who otherwise would have become the Death Eaters. Vincent Rosier, ever determined to be Tom’s chief lieutenant, still followed him around like a dog, of course. The other Knights who had signed the loyalty oath—Avery, Greengrass, and Wilkes—also attended Tom’s meetings. However, there were several new faces, people Tom had met through his job at the Ministry who admired his views. Occasionally Slughorn turned up, particularly during school holidays, unable to resist meeting with his old favorites—and getting good drinks with them. He pretended not to be interested in it for the politics, but that did not fool either Tom or Hermione. Alphard Black—now playing Quidditch for the Wimbourne Wasps—considered himself a political ally of Tom as well and attended whenever he wasn’t working. Hermione found that rather grotesque, considering that Tom had murdered Alphard’s father, but she couldn’t exactly do anything about it. Even though Alphard was a black sheep in his family—at least since Sirius hadn’t yet been born to thoroughly redefine _that_ term—he was still an acknowledged member of it and was a vital intelligence link for Tom’s crowd.

In the private rooms of the Serpents’ Chalice, Tom was building a new political faction. _Had_ built, for all intents and purposes. Everyone knew it was a matter of time before he was promoted either to Chief Advisor to the Head of Law Enforcement, or to the Head position itself—depending on how long Bob Ogden remained in the Ministry. He had not yet had the chance to do anything truly groundbreaking, but he had not been shy about discussing his ideas in the Ministry.

As he had predicted in seventh year, there were now three distinct political factions, albeit not formal political parties, just unofficial groups with shared views. There were the perennially obstinate blood-purist Isolationists; the Reformists, who wanted to be more like Muggle culture and viewed wizards as a bigger threat to Muggles than the reverse; and Tom’s faction, whose leading principle seemed to be “witches and wizards first, then anyone with magical ancestry.” Tom intended ultimately to declare all parents and siblings of Muggle-borns to be Squibs, in order to separate them from the population of Muggles, but he needed to lay groundwork first. There needed to be more research confirming it than just Grindelwald’s. Hermione’s organization, Advance, was working on replicating the work, as was the Department of Mysteries. He also had plans to institute a wizarding adoption system, which was wholly unobjectionable. After that… Hermione was not sure what Tom might do. She did have a general notion of where his ideas tended. The latest meeting of his allies had been to decide upon a name for themselves, since they were being called “Riddlers” in Ministry circles for lack of any other name. Tom had declared that they should call themselves Nationalists. Wizarding Nationalism seemed pretty apt for what Hermione knew of Tom’s beliefs. He had admired Grindelwald’s views, called “Wizarding Supremacism” by academics, but obviously had not wanted to take on that label for his own group.

“Hermione!”

Her reverie was broken by the sound of Tom’s voice. She turned to face him and managed a smile as he approached.

“I didn’t expect to see you so early,” she remarked.

“It’s Friday,” he explained. “There was nothing left to do but routine rubbish, so Ogden, Metcalfe, and I dismissed ourselves and told the underlings to do it.” A smug grin appeared.

Hermione shook her head in exasperation, but what was there to say? It was hardly unusual in any office. She _was_ a little surprised that Tom had joined Bob Ogden and his Chief Advisor, Payne Metcalfe, in leaving early, because the other two wizards were widely expected to retire from the Ministry in a few years. Tom must really feel confident, she supposed.

“I didn’t expect to see _you_ so early either,” Tom continued.

She met his eyes with a level gaze. “It’s Friday. I dismissed myself and had my staff do what little remained.”

He chuckled. “Shall we have a drink here”—he gestured to the Serpents’ Chalice—“or at home?”

Hermione glanced briefly at the bar. It was nice, but they would probably encounter some of his political group, and that would be the end of any private moments between them.

“At home,” she decided at once.

Without a word, he drew forward, took her hands in his, and Apparated them to their home across London.

* * *

“Have you thought about dinner?” Tom asked a bit later, fingering the rim of his glass.

Hermione scowled. He had not been very demanding about domestic matters in general. He had kept his own private spaces cleaned and assisted with the common areas of the house, which she appreciated. In fact, he had wanted to take on a house-elf to do the cooking and housework—at least, outside his private study—rather than watching her do it. That had been utterly unacceptable to Hermione, because he could not comprehend why she insisted upon having a _free_ elf if they did that. They certainly weren’t going to mistreat any elf they owned, he asserted, so why not have the extra security of magically guaranteed silence? He simply could not see her principled point of view, especially since it meant taking more work upon herself. However, once she had decided to do most of the cooking, he had accepted it without further protest. It increasingly felt like being taken for granted.

“No, I have not thought about dinner,” she bit out between clenched teeth. “Clearly _you_ have, so maybe you should take the initiative.”

He was taken aback. “Hermione, if you want me to do it occasionally, you could just ask instead of simmering in resentment.”

She glared at him. “Where I am from, Tom, it’s not a woman’s responsibility to ask. It is a man’s to understand that things that benefit the household are shared duties.”

“Well, _my_ philosophy is that people who are better at something—anything—should be the ones to do it, rather than ‘equality’ for its own sake.”

“That’s convenient for you, since I have no idea if you _are_ better at cooking than I am.”

“I do,” he said. “I don’t know if you realize it, but some of your dishes have become as good as the Hogwarts fare.”

Hermione snorted at this shameless flattery.

His eyebrows narrowed. “I’m not making it up. They are.”

She fell silent. Was he being honest? He actually seemed to be. Involuntarily she found herself contrasting this with Ron’s spoiled bitching about the quality of food she prepared when they were stuck in the tent. It still bothered her on some level that she was comparing Tom favorably against one of her old friends, but so it was.

“What do you say to going out for dinner?” he suggested abruptly.

Hermione frowned. There were very limited options in the wizarding world for eating out. “The Leaky Cauldron really isn’t—”

“I didn’t say the Leaky Cauldron. I was actually thinking of… a fine Muggle restaurant.” Tom said the last in a rush, as if embarrassed by it.

Her eyebrows shot up to her forehead.

“The wizarding institution with the best food is Hogwarts itself,” he said defensively. “You and I both know it. It’s a disgrace, but… the Muggles can cook better than we can. Collectively, I mean. In Britain. We should be embarrassed by that, and I’d love to see a nice restaurant spring up on Diagon Alley instead of yet another bloody gimmick shop….” He trailed off. “Anyway, I was thinking of this place in Covent Garden called Rules. I always wanted to eat there as a little boy, before I learned about magic. We could walk along the streets after, see the sights, go through some of the parks.”

Hermione was stunned. “Tom, that’s an expensive place to eat—and surely you don’t already have a reservation—”

He smirked pointedly. “We will when we get there. They’re _Muggles.”_

She wanted to scowl at his implication, but she couldn’t find it in her to do so. This was all too surprising. “Well, I really didn’t think Muggle London held any charms for you.”

He got up and moved closer to her. “It is a grand and historic part of town, and grandeur always holds charms for me,” he growled. “If it doesn’t have magic, then it would only be grander still if it did.” He leaned over to nip her ear.

_That_ certainly seemed true enough, she thought.

He drew away and regarded her with a knowing smile. “So, yes, then?”

“Sure,” she replied, finally smiling.

* * *

“How is the Wolfsbane coming?” Tom asked, cutting his pheasant smoothly, keeping his eyes on her the whole time. Their conversation was inaudible to the Muggles nearby.

She sipped her wine. “The trials are nearly complete. It does what it is supposed to do—though I already knew it would,” she muttered. She still felt twinges of guilt over pretending to invent the Wolfsbane Potion and patenting its formula, even though it would do a lot of good—and help enrich her organization.

“Well,” he mused, “once the trials are complete and the potion is made available, I think I could do something with that.”

“What do you mean?” she asked uneasily.

He regarded her with a raised eyebrow as he chewed his food. “I mean that Dumbledore and his crowd of naïfs seem to think werewolves can be ‘managed safely’ simply by securing them behind locked doors during the full moon. It’s bloody ridiculous if you ask me—”

Hermione frowned at this, but she was brought up short by the memory of Dumbledore’s decision to have Remus Lupin educated at Hogwarts and how Sirius Black’s stupid prank had nearly destroyed that attempt—and _had_ ruined the chance of education for any other young lycanthropes. She hoped that Fenrir Greyback, who Tom had confided was already operating on the sly, would be captured long before he could infect Remus, who wasn’t even born yet.

“—but what _can_ be done is that they can be closely monitored by the Ministry—the registry is in a truly disgraceful state and we’re trying to fix that—and required to take the Wolfsbane Potion, under threat of Azkaban.”

She looked rather dismayed at that. “Tom, I understand your point of view—I really do—they’re incredibly dangerous, obviously, as well as being threats to wizarding security. But the potion appears to have some fairly unpleasant long-term side effects, even when it’s made perfectly. The wolfsbane plant’s toxicity….” She trailed off. “Taking it for years probably decreases the werewolf’s lifespan.”

“What other option is there? I would imagine that the lifespan of a werewolf would be short anyway,” he said harshly. “I assume you’re comparing to the lifespan the person would have had without being one.”

She nodded. “As I said, I understand and respect your position, but there is a part of me that is really bothered by the idea of the Ministry telling people, ‘You _must_ take this toxic potion that will probably kill you in the end, or you’ll go to jail.’”

Tom finished his wine and, with a quick magical distraction to the waiters, poured himself another glass of it. “The alternative is for them to be excluded from civilized society for their whole lives… or to be locked up… or put down. And what of Muggles who are infected? They _definitely_ should have to take the potion. I’m sure that if you asked any of your test subjects what they thought, they’d gladly take a decreased lifespan over turning into a ravening beast every month.”

“They would,” Hermione admitted. “We’ve been very open with them about what we suspect. They’re still grateful for the potion.”

“Well, there you have it. When do you think the trials will be concluded?”

“We’re going to end them in about two months.”

He nodded. “I’ll tip off Ogden about it and we can start working on proposals. Something will be ready when your organization makes it public, so it will immediately be the default policy to debate and the Reformists won’t have time to mount an equal counter-proposal.”

Hermione looked at her food. She could not fault Tom for his idea, not really. Without the Wolfsbane Potion, the debate would have been between Reformists who wanted to let people who became violent monsters once a month mingle in society, and Isolationists who wanted them incarcerated or executed. With such untenable options, and no possible middle ground, the Ministry would essentially do nothing. The plan Tom was talking about, on the other hand, would probably easily get majority support in the Ministry—and the Wizengamot, if it came to that.

Still, he was awfully eager to assert his power over others, and there was something in his voice that told her that it was not out of concern for werewolves’ own well-being. It _might_ be partly from concern for the wizarding world at large, but Hermione was pretty sure that most of his enthusiasm for the idea was about demonstrating power over others—and being widely credited for a rational answer to a long-standing wizarding problem.

_Well,_ she thought as she finished her meal, _I have known all along that he puts his own ambitions first. At least he’s doing some good along the way._

* * *

To Hermione’s surprise, Tom knew about Muggle money as well as she did, and he actually had some with him— _and_ paid for the meal rather than simply casting Confundus Charms on the staff. A brief snarl did appear on his face as he handled the cash, but only she noticed it—or interpreted it correctly. She supposed that he might have decided on honesty tonight for her benefit, to avoid inciting her ire and spoiling the evening, but at least he respected her feelings enough to do that.

When they stepped out of the fine restaurant, the first thing Hermione noticed was the deep blue-violet cast to the sky. It wasn’t possible to see the stars from the city, but the sparkle of urban lights below that purplish-blue cloak was almost as beautiful. She gazed down the street at the quaint shops.

Hermione had been in this part of town before, but only in the 1990s. It was attractive then, but she thought it might be nicer now. _Perhaps it’s just because my memories of my old life are tinged with darkness, whereas I have some hope now,_ she thought, clutching Tom’s arm. He gave her a smug grin, a single eyebrow raised, and they began their stroll toward the parks.

Tom did get his fair share of furtive admiring glances, and once they moved farther away from the restaurant, their clothes garnered occasional impressed looks. But not a single pedestrian noticed anything strange about them. Hermione had to admit that she was very impressed with Tom’s fortitude tonight. He disliked Muggles—he actually had decided to call himself a “Wizarding Nationalist” recently—but in order to give her a romantic night out, he had taken her to a Muggle establishment, paid with Muggle money, and forgone his ever-present tailored wizard’s robes to avoid attracting negative attention from Muggles. Even if he only did it for her, he still did it.

She glanced at him. To her utter amazement, he seemed… contented. His face was actually not set in an angry simmer, nor was he smirking, nor did he bear the false mask of politeness that she could instantly recognize. Instead, he looked… almost proud. Hermione did not want to break the spell by asking him about it, but as they passed by the historic buildings en route to the parks, her curiosity heightened. At last she stopped him and gave him an inquiring look.

“This seems like more than simply ‘admiring grandeur,’” she remarked, quirking an eyebrow. “I’m really surprised—you wanted to live in the metropolitan area, but I always assumed it was for convenience and sociability reasons.”

He managed a brief, thin smile. “Why would you have thought that convenience and sociability would be factors for _us?”_ he replied in a quiet voice. “Distances are not an issue for us.”

“There’s still a psychological factor of being surrounded by other people—or knowing that… certain areas… are nearby. Even though I can travel somewhere instantly,” she said too softly for the Muggle pedestrians to overhear, “there were times _before_ when I was utterly isolated. But I still wonder….”

He continued to gaze at her, seemingly anticipating the question but waiting for her to say it.

“What _does_ London actually mean to you?” she asked.

He took her arm and resumed their walk, gathering his thoughts or deciding how he was going to word them. Finally he replied, still in a quiet voice, “There are two things. This city has just overcome a terrible war. Whatever the enemy threw at it, here it is, still standing and thriving as it has for centuries. Even though they’re Muggles… well, there is a part of me that still admires it. We’re a strong, proud people.”

Hermione stared at him in surprise. She had no idea he harbored sentiments like that. “And the second thing?” she asked softly.

He stopped again, with Buckingham Palace visible before them, providing a fitting backdrop for him. “There are traces of magic in some of the old sites. Some of them were built with the aid of magic… some had charms and curses put on them over the years… and some must have been occupied by several generations of these people like your family, non-magical but with some magical blood. Some of them _do_ have magical abilities… the ability to see ghosts or handle charmed objects, and I also suspect that they leave a ‘residue’ over time just as we do. Anyway, very old places often have a trace of magic. It used to be an accepted part of the world, not locked away and choked with regulations,” he said, scowling.

_Ah, of course, wizarding politics._ But still… he really was being extremely open with her, she thought, and on a Muggle sidewalk at that. Then Hermione suddenly remembered that Tom had drunk rather more of the wine in the restaurant than she had. _That explains it. He does mean this—he means everything he just said—but would he have said it otherwise?_

There was no point in speculating about that. Even if the wine had made him open up, he _did_ have these thoughts. She certainly was not going to use this moment of vulnerability to make sport of him in the future. It was sincere, and she was going to encourage more of it.

They reached the park and passed through it. The night sky was turning deep bluish-purplish-black, and the canopy of trees made it seem darker, even though the park was surrounded by and dotted with lamps.

A smile spread across Hermione’s face and remained there. He really was being quite nice tonight. Maybe he did feel bad about their brief spat at home and decided to make it up to her this way. Tom was not one for verbal apologies, most of the time, but perhaps this was his way of making one….

In the middle of the park, he suddenly pulled her off the sidewalk. Her heeled feet caught in the grass as he backed her against a large tree.

“Tom, what—”

He pushed her against the tree. She felt the bark through the fabric of her gown, very acutely indeed. This would require a spell to clean and possibly repair, but there was a more immediate and pressing concern for now.

“Tom, whatever you’re doing, people will see—”

He smirked, his gaze not leaving hers. His hand slid under his coat and withdrew his wand. He gave it a discreet flick.

“You were saying?” he murmured in a low growl.

She glanced from left to right. The Muggles who were milling around in the park passed nearby, not getting very close, but more importantly, not even noticing them.

“All right, it’s a Repelling Charm.”

“More than that.” His smirk somehow became even cockier. Hermione knew that it was because he enjoyed demonstrating his magical abilities over unsuspecting Muggles, but that didn’t bother her right at the moment.

_“Anyway._ You’d still better not—”

“Don’t worry, your gown isn’t coming off. Yet,” he growled. “Not till we return home. But in the meantime….”

He leaned in closer. Her hair, which had been combed into an elegant updo, bumped against the bark. Strands caught on the rough texture, pulling loose from the knot and tumbling down her shoulders in untidy waves. His eyes gleamed at the sight of her slightly unkempt. He pressed himself against her from the chest down to the hips and drew in, threading a hand into her hair and messing up what remained of her hairstyle.

Well, two could play at that game. Hermione slipped her hands into his perfectly combed hair, thoroughly mussing it. She dug her fingernails into his scalp, smirking back at him as she did.

He growled and closed the remaining distance, pressing his lips against hers. She felt his teeth graze her lips and then nip lightly. She tightened her grip on him in reaction. He responded by grinding his hips against hers. Her eyes flew open at the pressure she felt at that. _Yes,_ she thought idly. Her gown probably would not stay on her long once they got home….

The pedestrians continued to amble by, not noticing the inappropriately intimate public display of affection before them, as the violet sky faded to night.


	9. Patronage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione and Tom have different ideas about helping people out. As she engages in hers, she is pretty sure she has discovered a distant wizarding relative, but she can never tell the person about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I completely agree with the reviewer on ff.net who said that Hermione doesn’t seem to have any friends. It’s actually bothered me more than I may have let on, because I wanted to keep the parent story of this AU focused on Hermione and Tom, rather than Hermione and a female OC. I just couldn’t think of a way to add to the plot with that, and I wanted the plot to remain tight and mostly filler-free. Even in canon, though, she is not shown with any female friends other than Ginny (and that doesn’t seem to be very close), and she comes off to me as a distant second-place friend to both Harry and Ron (one of the many reasons I consider the DH epilogue as only a suggestion—a view that IMO JKR herself has endorsed via the ridiculous thing known as “The Cursed Child”… but I digress).
> 
> Hermione just seems to have difficulty developing ordinary friendships, which I can relate to… so here is one. This is also a snapshot of work in her organization.
> 
> This piece occurs before Tom becomes Minister as well, some time in the mid-1950s.

Hermione did not mind attending most of Tom’s photo ops. Although she could not support all of his actions toward other people in his pursuit of his ambitions, she recognized politics as being a brutal field, and—for the moment, at least—she usually had little to complain about with his actual policies. Most of the photo ops were about policy triumphs: the Minister’s signing of his wizarding adoption law, with him standing near her and smiling; the famous picture of two little orphans from behind the Iron Curtain being brought to a wizarding family in Britain; the handshake between a werewolf—in human form, of course—and the Magical Law Enforcement Head whose Wolfsbane Law allowed them to be enfranchised members of magical society.

The most recent photograph, however, she had to turn aside from in distaste.

The release of Roland Lestrange from St. Mungo’s long-term resident ward was not heralded with the kind of press fanfare that a political event would be, because nobody wanted much coverage for it. The blood-purist Isolationists did not like any reminders of one of their most shameful moments, when Arcturus Black and his cronies manipulated two schoolboys—including the unfortunate Lestrange—into abducting the Law Enforcement Head’s then-fiancée. The Head himself didn’t want a to-do about it because he had been the one to wipe out years of his classmate’s memory— _by accident,_ of course.

The _Prophet_ did not even cover the story, but the _Quibbler,_ currently run by Xeno Lovegood’s uncle, did. _“Lestrange Released from Hospital! What Does—or DID?—He Know about the Riddles and Blacks?”_ the headline blared. Lovegood had run a photograph of Lestrange meeting with Tom.

Averting her eyes from the picture, Hermione skimmed the story. There were no facts in it, just inaccurate speculation. Lovegood believed, apparently based on an analysis of Tom’s pale visage, that Tom was a vampire and had silenced Lestrange to cover that up. _The Lovegood family always wants to think someone high in the Ministry is a vampire,_ Hermione thought in amusement. Lovegood also thought that Lestrange had information about how Pollux Black had supposedly been poisoned by someone in the Isolationist faction, and that he had been set up to be Obliviated by Tom to silence him and harm Tom—though the latter had, of course, failed. It was sleazy tabloid rubbish, and Hermione found herself longing for the days of Crumple-Horned Snorkacks and heliopath armies.

But despite the ridiculousness of the _Quibbler_ article, Hermione found the photograph—which _was_ real—distressing. She set down the tabloid and picked up _Wizarding Britain Weekly,_ a gossipy social magazine that carried a legitimate take on the story along with the same photograph. For this magazine, Tom had given a brief statement, making sure to express his pleasure that his old schoolmate had re-learned his magical education and was once again able to function in wizarding society…

…And how Tom felt it was his _responsibility_ to recommend his old pal for the clerkship at Borgin and Burkes.

The photograph was even snapped inside the shop. Lestrange’s face was set in a mild, sincere smile that was utterly unlike anything Hermione had seen on his face during seventh year. He wore a little pin with the store logo, identifying him as an employee. Borgin and Burke stood in the foreground next to their new clerk. Tom stood in the background, a smile visible on his face that Hermione immediately recognized as his classic smug smirk.

It was disgusting to her, and the more she thought about it, the more disgusted she became. There were only two people in the world who knew the alternate-timeline significance of Borgin and Burkes: Tom and herself. _Lestrange sure doesn’t get the “joke,”_ Hermione thought. Although she did not doubt that Tom had enjoyed the privately sadistic triumph of sending an old minor enemy to work at the menial job _he_ otherwise would have held, Hermione had a strong suspicion that Tom had aimed this primarily at her. She was the only one who would “appreciate” it.

Instead, it infuriated her. Why would he imagine that she would think it funny? Surely by now, he at least _understood_ that she didn’t find sadistic humor amusing, even if it made no difference to his own sense of humor.

Hermione scowled and tossed aside the magazine. Tom was going to be finished with his morning routine soon, and she would need to put on a calm face for him. There was no point in arguing at this time of day. She could confront him about it later.

* * *

At Tom’s urging, Hermione had chartered her organization so that she had veto power over any decision that the board of advisors made—a perpetual controlling share, as it were, though it did not actually have ownership shares. It would prevent her vice presidents from defying her overall vision or removing her from her position in a hostile takeover. She had not entirely liked investing herself with such power, but she saw his point on days like today.

Hermione’s board had important news for her, though it was obvious that none of them thought it important. She surveyed the private meeting room that she had called them to. Her current Vice President of Research, Caroline Prewett, wore a contemptuous smirk, and her Vice President of Human Resources, Justin Hargrove, was trying hard not to chuckle aloud.

“So,” Hermione said, “did you determine the truth of the rumors?”

Prewett’s smirk widened briefly. “There is certainly a person who has modified the Wolfsbane formula without decreasing its effectiveness, and she claims it ameliorates the negative symptoms. Analysis of her custom formula does indeed indicate that it could do what she says. However….” She trailed off, exchanging a knowing look with Hargrove.

Hermione leaned forward, frowning at them. “What’s the problem, if her recipe looks valid according to Potions theory?”

They exchanged looks again. “Madam President,” Hargrove began, “this girl is not even out of Hogwarts. She is a sixth year who earned three OWLs, and, well….”

Hermione glared stonily at them. “Do explain to me— _me—_ why being in Hogwarts disqualifies her from being a prodigy. Do you think she’s lying and stole the recipe from someone else? Does she not have an OWL in Potions? Is that it?”

“No, she earned an Outstanding in that subject….” Hargrove said. “But, Madam President—”

“Her appearance and manner do not lend credibility to her,” Prewett said primly. “She may be a prodigy, but her presentation is simply deplorable.”

Hermione attempted to control her temper at such narrow-mindedness. These people meant well, she supposed, and this girl—whoever she was—might very well be difficult and unpleasant. _Eileen Prince?_ she wondered briefly, before immediately realizing that it probably wasn’t. Eileen Prince would have been out of school by now, and she had never come across anything to indicate that she had the Potions talents that her son would.

“I would still like to meet her,” Hermione finally said. “She _did_ improve Wolfsbane Potion, apparently—of course we’d want Research to confirm that—but if it is what it appears to be, it would be a wonderful thing… minimal long-term organ damage instead of the current estimates…. Anyway, she may very well be impossible—though I’d like to form an opinion for myself about that—but she still should be compensated for her work if it does this. What’s her name, by the way?”

“Catriona Dagworth.”

Hermione took down the name. “That’s all, then. Thank you for researching this, but I’ll make up my own mind about what to do for her.”

After the meeting broke up, Hermione wrote a letter to the young witch, addressing it to Hogwarts. The surname seemed somehow familiar to her, but she could not explain how.

Hermione heard back from the girl swiftly, and a meeting was set up. With only three NEWT courses on her schedule, Catriona Dagworth had plenty of free time, and the school faculty had been willing to let her meet— _privately—_ with Hermione to discuss her “extracurricular project.” In the meantime, Hermione had done a little research of her own. Catriona was a Gryffindor. Her OWL scores were an exercise in high and low: Outstandings in Potions, Charms, and Herbology; Poor and Dreadful in everything else. Hermione’s first impression was of a student somewhat like Fred and George Weasley, or like Harry for that matter—one who was incredibly gifted at what she cared about, but who did not even bother with anything else. But unless her personality was atrocious, Hermione hoped to be able to work with her. Sometimes all that people like that needed was a positive mentor.

The project had overtaken Roland Lestrange in Hermione’s mind, at least for now. She had not confronted Tom about that, and he had not brought up the subject to her. It would happen eventually, and she hoped that when it did, she would have a patronage story of her own—a real one—to tell to him.

* * *

“Madam President—Catriona Dagworth,” said Hermione’s assistant.

Hermione looked up from her desk. The assistant was trying not to smirk. Hermione frowned at her employee, and the expression vanished from her face.

The girl was ushered into Hermione’s office. The assistant closed the door behind her, leaving Hermione with the girl.

Hermione quickly sized up Catriona. Her brown hair was tied into a loose ponytail. Her school robe was completely open in the front, revealing her clothes underneath—and they were definitely not the Hogwarts uniform. Instead the girl wore a pair of blue jeans, a black turtleneck, and a black leather jacket. She also wore a sneer on her face—which rather put Hermione off, but she suppressed her disapproval. Her personal staff had probably made their contempt known to the girl.

“Please, have a seat,” Hermione said, gesturing at the chair in front of her desk.

Silently Catriona shuffled forward and sat. She stared at Hermione with a look of deep cynicism. There was also a hunted, defensive look to her, but it was beneath the surface. The cynicism seemed to be a shield of some sort.

“Catriona Dagworth?”

The girl nodded. “Pleased to meet you,” she got out.

“I heard about your improvement to the Wolfsbane Potion,” Hermione said kindly. “That, of course, is why I wanted to meet you.”

“I’m not distributing it to anyone,” Catriona said at once, her tone defensive. “And the person who’s taking it—well, she wanted to. I’m not doing anything illegal. I checked.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Miss Dagworth—”

“Just call me Catriona… Mrs. Riddle.”

Hermione wanted to laugh and shake her head at the juxtaposition, but she supposed she could not expect this girl to call her “Hermione.” “Very well,” she said. “Catriona—I didn’t invite you here because I thought you were breaking the law! This organization is not an arm of the Ministry. I invited you because it is a wonderful potions breakthrough and I hoped to do something for you.”

For the first time, Catriona looked hopeful.

“I was wondering, though—what are your plans after you complete school? You are a sixth year, I understand.”

Catriona scoffed. “I don’t have any plans. I figure I’ll just scrape a NEWT in something and get a job somewhere.”

Not so much like Harry, then. He had a very clear ambition. This girl, Hermione thought, seemed almost… beaten down.

“What do you _want_ to do? What do you like doing?”

Catriona didn’t meet Hermione’s eyes. “I have a Muggle motorcycle and I like charming it,” she muttered.

Hermione was suddenly reminded of Sirius Black. “Oh? What have you charmed it to do?”

“Nothing illegal.”

Hermione leaned forward. “Catriona, I promise you, nothing you tell me will be repeated to anyone else if you don’t want it to be. I don’t report to my husband. This is _my_ office.”

Catriona hesitated, apparently coming to a quick decision about something. “It can fly,” she said. “When it takes to the air, there’s a charm that makes it look like a helicopter to Muggles.”

“That’s very impressive,” Hermione said, legitimately surprised. Even Sirius hadn’t managed to disguise his motorcycle.

Catriona shrugged ungraciously.

“You’re quite gifted with Charms and Potions. And Herbology, of course—but that makes sense, given your Potions aptitude. I see no reason for you to have to ‘scrape a NEWT and get a job somewhere.’ You are very talented.”

Catriona shrugged again.

“Catriona, what’s the matter?”

The girl sat upright. “May I speak plainly?”

“Please do. As I said… nothing you say will be repeated if you don’t want it to be.”

The girl paused for a moment. “Mrs. Riddle, my family doesn’t support me. I know, I know, you’ve probably heard that sort of thing before from people my age—but they really don’t. They think I’m a disgrace.”

“Why?”

“It started when I was Sorted into Gryffindor. All my family have been Ravenclaws, and they didn’t think anyone could be really smart without being one.”

Hermione felt a pang. That attitude was far too common in the wizarding world, and it seemed endemic to all the families with a strong House affiliation. It was probably the reason why most seemingly hereditary Sortings even occurred: children telling the Hat where they wanted to go.

“Then… well, as you can see, I don’t dress the way they think a ‘young lady’ should. I get that everywhere, though,” she muttered. “And they don’t like my motorcycle. They think it’s not wizardly enough. I don’t _like_ brooms, though.”

Hermione chuckled. “I don’t much like brooms either. I was never any good at flying.”

“And my family… well, my great-great-uncle was this great potioneer, right? The only great thing the family actually produced,” she muttered resentfully, “but it’s all I’ve heard about, the amazing Hector Dagworth-Granger.”

A jolt seemed to go through Hermione at this name. Yes—she had heard it before. Slughorn, in her original time, had wondered if this person was an ancestor of hers. She had assumed not at the time, but in light of the research about Muggle-borns….

 _Is she a distant cousin?_ Hermione wondered, gazing at the girl. It seemed very possible.

“You’re quite a good potioneer yourself, though,” Hermione finally said in a mild voice. “Families often do want a specific thing for their children, and House prejudice is unfortunately very widespread. I don’t think you should limit yourself based on their opinions—or anyone’s. You like to experiment with magic. Have you experimented with Potions before the Wolfsbane?”

Catriona grinned. “All the time. I love it. I don’t really know why I _wasn’t_ put in Ravenclaw….”

“I do,” Hermione chuckled. “You’re quite Gryffindor—and that’s no bad thing.”

“Well, I made some potions to, uh….”

Hermione raised an eyebrow as a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.

“Well, there’s this club Professor Slughorn has—but I’m sure you know all about it….”

“The Slug Club, yes.”

“Of course you were a member. Well. It was probably because of old Great-Uncle Hector, rather than anything I did myself, but so was I. I mean, I guess I still am, but I haven’t been to a meeting since the first month of school.”

“Oh, you should go to them. He’s really very helpful.”

“Well, anyway… people like to drink at the meetings, right? You know all about that. Even the professor. And this potion… it isn’t just a Sobering Potion, I mean, it goes _into_ the drink itself and prevents you from getting drunk, or _more_ drunk. So I’d, well….” She reddened a bit but grinned defiantly. “I’d sneak it into people’s drinks after they’d had about three. They were plenty tipsy enough by then.”

Hermione laughed. “That’s a pretty good idea. There have been times when I wish I had a potion like that around.”

Catriona managed a laugh too, but then her face changed. “Well,” she said, her tone suddenly morose and cynical again, “I can’t make a job out of that. I _could_ do research, I know—I could go to work at St. Mungo’s—but they always make new people do apprenticeships first, for several years, and I’ve heard you don’t get to innovate much, and it’s just… I mean, I will be _done_ with being a student after seventh year. I want to actually _do_ stuff.”

“I understand completely… and on that subject, if I may, I’d like to discuss your Wolfsbane improvement. This wasn’t just experimentation for its own sake, you said. You made it for someone. Who is the werewolf?”

Catriona looked shifty, the moment of openness gone. “It’s not me. It’s someone who is on the Werewolf Registry. A… friend of mine.”

Hermione could do very basic Legilimency. She felt a bit guilty about this, but if the girl was lying about this particular issue, that did matter. She met Catriona’s eyes and performed quick surface Legilimency on her—just enough to detect that she was indeed telling the truth. Catriona was not a lycanthrope. There was a friend… or rather….

“A classmate of yours?” Hermione probed.

“It’s supposed to be a secret from the parents, because she’s still in school. Please don’t tell. The bite came from that werewolf Greyback, the one the Ministry is trying to catch…. Lila takes the regular Wolfsbane, as the Ministry requires, and my formula as well. I expect the symptoms would be even less if she took _only_ my formula, but I didn’t want her to break the law….” For the first time in the interview, the tough façade was down. Catriona looked… emotional.

Hermione was pretty sure she understood the situation. “I see. Your family doesn’t approve of her either, I’m guessing?”

Catriona looked at Hermione, surprised. “They… no. They don’t like the fact that she’s a werewolf now, of course, but even before… they thought… well.”

“I really think I get it,” Hermione said gently, “and it doesn’t matter to me.”

Catriona subsided.

“What do you say to something better than just ‘getting a job’?”

The girl’s eyes widened. “You want to buy the formula from me?”

“I was going to propose something else, actually,” Hermione said. “You may, of course, sell the formula for a lump sum, but I would actually recommend holding it and letting us act on your behalf. You would get a royalty from every sale from every apothecary… and you would own the formula no matter what.”

Catriona was hanging on every word.

“And… if you earn NEWTs in those three subjects, you would have a guaranteed job in this organization in Research after your seventh year.”

Her eyes widened. “A real researcher, immediately?”

“Immediately. You would make enough money to get your own apartment. And you can come to work on your motorcycle, dress exactly as you wish, experiment to your heart’s content, and keep your werewolf girlfriend.”

Catriona looked up sharply at that. She was very pink. “Mrs. Riddle, please don’t spread that around—I mean, I know you said you wouldn’t, but _please_ don’t.”

Hermione gave her a very serious look. “It’s not my secret to share, Catriona. I gave you my word, and that means something to me.”

The girl rushed forward. “Thank you,” she whispered as she shook Hermione’s hand.

 _Just as I hoped,_ Hermione thought in satisfaction after the girl had left. _The staff were just prejudiced against her appearance and brusque manner and didn’t know how to get her to open up._

She considered the girl’s surname. It really piqued her curiosity now. _Did_ she have wizarding relatives alive today? There were Dagworths, obviously. She would have to research this Hector Dagworth-Granger and see what had happened to the “Granger” part of the line. If they became Squibs and there was even one male who would pass on the surname, it seemed extremely likely that they were related to her.

It was a terrible pity, Hermione reflected, that she could never tell Catriona about it if that turned out to be the case.

* * *

That evening Hermione told Tom about the Wolfsbane improvement, keeping secret the personal parts that Catriona had told her, as she had promised. He looked pleased.

“That’s funny, her spiking Sluggy’s drinks. The man is a sot, of course… though it came in handy on occasion, when I wanted to know things from him.”

Hermione scowled, pretty sure she knew what he was referring to.

He raised a knowing eyebrow at her and cleared his throat pointedly. “Well,” he continued, swirling his glass, “she’d better not try it with me. _This_ is a marvelous potion… I’m calling it a Fiery Old Fashioned… and it is further evidence that we can improve whatever the Muggles come up with.” He raised it as if to toast Hermione—or perhaps Catriona—before continuing. “As for the Wolfsbane improvement, it’s great news. There has been a bit of grumbling against the Wolfsbane Law,” he said, “because of the documented ill effects of the potion. Not much opposition, granted—but you know how the most radical of the Reformists can be. This ought to shut them up.”

Hermione shook her head in amused exasperation.

“If your organization can verify the effect, she ought to get the Order of Merlin for that. Third Class, I think. Though it’ll look odd to give it to her when you wouldn’t accept it—”

“I didn’t invent the potion; I just pretended to. She actually did improve it. I suppose that in the old timeline, it wouldn’t have been invented yet… and she would have… hmm. Probably not amounted to anything,” Hermione said unhappily. _“But…_ she has the chance to amount to something now.”

“I know why you refused the medal. I still think it’ll look odd… but I’ll decide on that later. If you’re giving her a job, contingent on her NEWT scores, that might be enough.”

Hermione decided that this was a good opportunity to confront him over the issue that had been bothering her for a while. “Yes,” she said with a touch of asperity, “I’m giving her a job if she earns her NEWTs. I’m offering her patronage.”

Tom noticed the change in her voice. He set down his drink glass and raised an eyebrow at her.

“I saw the news about Roland Lestrange.”

All hints of mirth fled his face. “What of it, Hermione?” he asked mulishly.

She peered at him with narrowed eyes. “Borgin and Burkes, really? What was that about?”

“I don’t know what you’re asking.”

“Oh, I think you do. You must have had a reason for recommending him to that shop in particular, and I doubt it’s because he has extraordinary aptitude for being a clerk. There’s only one person in the world who knows what Borgin and Burkes would otherwise have meant, and I’m that person.” She glared at him. “If you did it for my benefit, I really don’t find it amusing. I find it rather sadistic, in fact—and not towards him, but myself.”

Tom stared at her. “I didn’t aim the ‘joke’ at you, and I didn’t expect you to find it hilarious. Ironic, yes, but not _funny.”_

Hermione’s irritation settled a bit. “So why’d you recommend him to the shop?”

“Because he has to work somewhere, and I imagined that you would find it much more ghoulish and sadistic if I had him working for me. Borgin and Burke still owe me favors.”

She relaxed further. That made sense.

“Besides, his new personality is a bit too mild for politics.” A crooked smirk formed on his face.

Hermione finally laughed, though the subject was grim. “I guess he probably is, just out of St. Mungo’s! All right. If you really didn’t do it to give me a good laugh—”

“I know what you find funny. _I_ might have had a good laugh if I’d had the personal knowledge that you do, but I really did it primarily because Borgin and Burke owe me and I wanted Lestrange out of the public eye. It’s sordid and not the sort of headlines I need right now, even if everyone does think it was an accident. The irony came second.”

Satisfied, Hermione helped herself to a glass of water. “Oh—before I forget. I think Catriona Dagworth may be distantly related to me.” Briefly she explained her theory about the possible mutual ancestor.

Tom looked contemplative. “It does seem like she might be,” he remarked. “You could probably find out, or research enough to form a very good guess. We’ve built a good library, and Sluggy would let either of us into Hogwarts to use the library there if need be.”

Hermione smiled. “I never thought I would research my own hidden wizarding ancestry, but I’m really curious about this.”

He smiled knowingly. “If you need assistance, I’m something of an expert on the subject.”

She gave him an arch look. “I know.”

* * *

_A few weeks later._

Hermione slammed the genealogy book shut in triumph. She had easily traced the Dagworth line, as it was an extant wizarding family. Sure enough, Hector Dagworth-Granger, Extraordinary Potioneer, was related to Catriona Dagworth. His father—also the father of Catriona's great-grandfather—had been a Dagworth.  His mother had been a Granger, and apparently, the last magical member of that family to bear the name. She had had a brother—the great potioneer’s uncle—but the genealogy implied that he had been a Squib. After the one-off generation with the hyphenated name, the Dagworth-Grangers dropped the "Granger."

Hermione would have to turn to Muggle books to find out for certain, but she was almost positive that she was descended on her father’s side. Her mother almost definitely had a wizarding ancestor too, but that could be harder to trace.

She could never tell Catriona about it, but it was still nice to know. As she put the book back on the shelf, she realized that she finally understood why Tom had been so determined to trace his family. In a life in which Hermione still sometimes felt adrift, it was another anchor of belonging.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that OCs can be hit or miss, so this lady greaser won’t be extremely important in this AU—though she will make another appearance. Still, the Hector Dagworth-Granger thing is just too suspicious to me in light of JKR’s later statement about Muggle-borns having wizard ancestry.
> 
> The next chapter will jump forward again with Tom as Minister.
> 
> As an aside, I do modifications to dolls to make custom, one-of-a-kind ones. Recently I altered a pair of dolls to look like Tom and Hermione from this AU. If you’d like to see the details of that, check it out [here](http://betagyre-penname.tumblr.com/post/147865534449/ooak-custom-dolls-tom-riddle-and-hermione).


	10. Arrogance and Arrogation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Minister Riddle has plans to improve the Ministry and make the Wizengamot more efficient.
> 
> At least, that’s what he claims.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise!
> 
> Tom is Minister in this piece, so we're jumping forward to the time immediately following Grindelwald's assisted escape.
> 
> This is _a_ political subplot, but in the next chapter and the three after it, I’m finally going to get to the political subplot I’ve been talking about.

“I’ve called a meeting at the Serpents’ Chalice this afternoon,” Tom said. He knotted his tie. “Will you be able to come?”

Hermione considered. “I should. I’ll let you know if that changes.”

He nodded, gave her a quick peck, and headed downstairs to Disapparate to the Ministry.

Hermione did not know exactly what the meeting would be about, but she knew, more or less, who would be there and why. As Tom had hoped—and helped accomplish—the Serpents’ Chalice had become the unofficial headquarters of his Nationalist political faction. No longer just the haunt of Tom and his closest allies, the pub now hosted meetings of top Nationalists in the Ministry and Wizengamot in the private rooms upstairs. The common area was open to the wizarding (and Squib) public, but most customers went there because they knew they could talk politics with like-minded people. Partisan Reformists and Isolationists just did not frequent it. They had their own haunts.

Hermione expected that Tom was going to tell his coterie what he and she had decided to do about an upcoming vote on the Wizengamot. The current Chief Warlock was an aging Reformist wizard who had been there for a while and was regarded with some affection by all three factions. It was in part because the position was basically a ceremonial title with no real power. The Chief Witch or Warlock did not have any more voting power than the regular members of the body. He or she didn’t even have exclusive power to call for votes. Anyone on the Wizengamot could propose anything, and it had to be voted on. It created an atmosphere of disorder and seemed to trivialize the process of voting itself. Most votes failed as a result. The current proposal would change all that, awarding two votes to the Chief and giving him or her sole power to bring non-criminal matters before the Wizengamot for a vote—or withhold them. Two-thirds of the body would be able to override the Chief in that.

Tom and Hermione were going to vote yes on the proposal, siding with the Reformist faction. The Nationalists were expected to fall in line behind their Minister and factional leader. Hermione had privately agonized over her vote, but in the end it seemed to her that the Wizengamot needed to act more often than it did, and having a strong Chief Witch or Warlock, a clear leader rather than a mere title-holder, was a good step in that direction. At any rate, Tom did not seem to be after the Chief position himself—at least not yet. He apparently understood that he was still regarded as too green to hold that one.

The Wizengamot initiative, Hermione was sure, was part of the reason for the meeting in the bar. She did not think that was _all_ there was to it. There was probably something he was not telling her. Tom had not been Minister for very long, and he had not yet proposed any new policies beyond those he had advanced in Law Enforcement. Hermione expected that the meeting would primarily be about whatever he had in mind now. It was something she was actually rather curious about. He had held his cards very close to his chest lately. She had not known in advance about his plan to discredit his competitor, Ignatius Tuft, by freeing Grindelwald, although she had worked it out quickly enough once he set it in motion. She certainly didn’t know what he intended to do next policy-wise, and it bothered her a bit.

He had not kept secrets from her in a long time, but when he had in the past, it usually meant he suspected she would not like his plan and wanted to keep it private until it was a _fait accompli._ That was ominous.

The policy of designating parents and siblings of Muggle-borns as Squibs, and bringing them under wizarding law, was good. Others in the Nationalist faction were even trying to discourage the use of the term “Muggle-born” on the grounds that it was inaccurate and exclusionary; they were trying to promote “Squib-born half-blood” instead. The wizarding adoption laws were good. The new rules about informing non-magical families of their child’s abilities in infancy were good. Even the Wolfsbane Law wasn’t awful, especially with the potion now so improved.

With all the decent laws that he had put in place, Hermione wondered what Tom had up his sleeve that he didn’t want her to know about in advance. She supposed she would find out soon enough.

* * *

Hermione glanced around the pub as she passed through. It was dimly lit:  little candles at each table, a sparkle of reflected light from the bottles and mirrors behind the bar, and muted recessed lighting in the ceiling. The floor was smooth tile, and artwork adorned the dark brown stucco walls. Her gaze caught a large poster on the side wall, a piece of political art depicting the Nationalist symbol. Tom’s own symbol. It was a green Ouroboros, the serpent that consumed its own tail, with a pale beige wand passing vertically through the ring and casting a spell. Ouroboros was a symbol of eternity, and the wand obviously meant magical power. The official explanation was that the motif symbolized a strong wizarding nation that protected magic users and those who might birth magic users, ensuring that the wizarding world would last. However, Hermione knew Tom had a double meaning in mind. He was essentially boasting to the entire wizarding world of his… exploit… if anyone but her had known to interpret it so.

It _was_ well-chosen, Hermione had to grant, and not grotesque like the Dark Mark.

The symbol also had a strong resemblance to the sign of the Deathly Hallows, though hardly anyone in Britain connected that with Grindelwald. It was just as well. The pro-Muggle Reformists already grumbled darkly that the Nationalists were “proto-supremacists,” referring to Grindelwald’s advocacy for open wizard rule of Muggles.

Hermione looked away from the poster and faced the stairs. Tom’s meeting would be in the Morgana Room, the nicest of the lot—and the one in which the Muffliato spell worked best.

 _Tom is not merely a proto-supremacist,_ she thought again as she climbed the stairs. _He’s a full supremacist, but he can’t push for it openly._

There was often a fine line between nationalism and supremacism of any kind, but Hermione knew full well that Tom’s underlying motives for his signature policies were supremacist. His laws about Squibs were not about “Muggle-inclusiveness” to him, but rather the opposite. To him, they were about catching as many people as possible with _magical_ ancestry to increase the likelihood that they would have magical offspring together.

 _“The siblings of Muggle-borns have the potential to have magical children,”_ he had said once, _“but they have to marry amongst themselves for it to happen. Or I suppose some witches or wizards might want to marry them,”_ he had added disapprovingly. _“I don’t understand it, but that’s still better than marrying complete outsiders.”_

Still, Hermione always told herself, at least he was not inciting violence, promoting blood-status hatred, or pretending to be a pureblood. He had made genuinely useful laws, a breath of fresh air in wizarding politics. The Nationalists had shaken things up, now that some supporters that the others had taken for granted had another choice. The Reformists no longer had a stranglehold on Muggle-born support; many supported the new faction due to the legal protection and formal inclusion of their families in the wizarding world. Others had long disliked the Reformist position that certain technological and cultural advances in the Muggle world should not be “co-opted” because it was “supremacist” and “put Muggles at risk,” whereas Nationalists explicitly supported magically enhancing the best that Muggles had to offer. On the other hand, the Isolationists had lost many purebloods and half-bloods who weren’t bigoted but were nervous about telling so many outsiders about magic so casually—or who did not like the fact that most Muggle culture that _was_ brought into the wizarding world seemed to be cheap, low, and insipid.

Yes, so far Tom’s ideas has been good for wizarding politics and society. He _was_ a supremacist—he definitely thought that wizards should rule Muggles—but he was not about to wreck his career by advocating to repeal Seclusion and take over the Muggle world. _I’ll just have to keep watching him and make sure that he doesn’t push for anything bad,_ Hermione thought, feeling suddenly tired. These meetings were taxing, if she were honest with herself. She knew Tom expected her to support him unquestioningly here, not challenge him in front of his deputies and hangers-on. She understood the reasons why he wanted her to stand by him here, but it was hard sometimes to hold her questions until they were alone.

She reached the Morgana Room, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

Tom looked up. “Hermione,” he said, smiling.

She took her seat in the place of honor next to him at the head seat and gazed down the table. There was Vincent Rosier, Tom’s deputy, looking pleased as he could be. Hermione supposed he was very happy about the recent birth of his son, Evan. There were several more of Tom’s people from the Ministry too.

There were several bottles of wine on the table, as well as shakers of assorted mixed drinks. Hermione could not help but observe that Tom appeared to have the strongest cocktail of anyone. In these settings, everything was about appearance to him.

He smiled faintly as the minute hand on the mantel clock reached the upright position and the clock began to chime. “Well,” he began, regarding each face at the table—except hers—with a piercing look in turn. “I’m sure you are all curious to know my plans, and that is exactly why I have called you here. Vincent, do you have the newspaper?”

Rosier nodded. He withdrew a copy of the _Prophet_ from his briefcase and set it on the table. It was unfolded to the editorial section, which bore the large headline, “Time for Underage Squib-borns to Have the Right to Practice At Home.” The author of the piece, who had the byline of Special Contributor, was Horace Slughorn, Deputy Headmaster of Hogwarts.

Tom nodded in contentment. “Sluggy really came through with this.” His gaze settled on the Head of the Office of Non-Magical Families of Witches and Wizards, Geoffrey Fox, who was himself Muggle-born. “Geoff, would you explain to anyone who doesn’t know?”

“Certainly, Minister.” Fox cleared his throat and addressed the table. “So—one of the reasons the Isolationists have been against Squib-borns is that statistically, they don’t perform as well in school as other children. There are individual exceptions, of course—who tend to be really exceptional, at that—but as a group, their scores are lower, especially in practical magic. Isolationists claim that is evidence of inborn inferiority. However, Slughorn and a couple of his seventh years have definitively linked the score difference to the ban on underage sorcery, because it turns out that the effect decreases as soon as these students come of age. Minor children who have an adult witch or wizard in their home, of course, can practice magic freely, because the Ministry does not track them due to the likelihood of picking up the adult’s magic instead.”

There were murmurs at the table.

“Thank you, Geoff,” Tom said smoothly. “And now that their families are designated Squibs, they have the right to be connected to the Floo network. There is also a project underway to make the Muggle telephone work off magic, but it’s run into a hitch… it seems that once it’s made to use magic, it can’t work the Muggle way, so a household would have to have two telephones… but in any case, they can use Floo if an emergency should arise. And they have a specific case worker assigned to their family while their child is underage. There is really no reason for there to be an underage sorcery ban anymore. This is the third editorial to that effect, and now that Sluggy has shown that it hurts scores, I think we can repeal it.”

Hermione was pleased. This was good news, and it wasn’t surprising either. She had followed the editorials and knew that Tom wanted to do this.

“Next order of business… the upcoming Wizengamot vote.” Tom sipped his cocktail. “Not all of you have seats—yet—of course, but those of you who do, Hermione and I have decided that the Nationalist faction should vote with the Reformists on the proposal to empower the Chief Warlock.”

The cronies who were on the Wizengamot nodded, unsurprised. This was expected.

Hermione frowned into her glass, not allowing anyone to see her expression. There was something else. There had to be. Surely this wasn’t the purpose of the meeting.

It was as if Tom was reading her mind. As soon as she had the thought, he cleared his throat and looked around the table significantly. “And now… the real reason I called everyone here.”

Every head turned to him.

He fingered the rim of his glass, enjoying the attention. “I’m going to restructure the Ministry,” he said. “Some of the changes I am going to make should not be controversial, but there are others that might meet with resistance. I have reasons for every change I intend to make, and I expect your unconditional support in this matter.”

Hermione’s pulse began to increase. _What_ was he going to do? No one in the room looked inclined to challenge him, but unless they knew something she didn’t—and they had _better_ not, she thought—they did not even know what he intended to do.

There was a murmuring of general assent around the table, which seemed to satisfy Tom. “Very well. First of all, I am going to move the Offices of Social Welfare, Adoption and Fostering, and Non-Magical Families of Witches and Wizards out of their present departments. These offices will move to the Office of the Minister, and their heads”—he inclined his head at Fox and others—“will answer directly to me. Since I created these offices, I do not expect too many objections to this.”

A part of Hermione did not like that, but she did understand it. These were Tom’s pet projects, and it made sense that he wanted to retain control over them rather than having a layer of bureaucracy between them and himself. Still, she waited for the other shoe to drop.

“As for the more controversial changes… well.” Tom flicked his wand, and a small stack of papers flew out of his briefcase. “Here are the other departments I want to move, reform—or abolish.” With another flick of his wand, he sent a sheet to everyone at the table.

Hermione regarded the list before her. Each line had a brief explanation given for the change. She started to read it. Reform the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office to “make it less arbitrary and focus only on illicit sales in the Muggle world.” All right, fair enough. The “Muggle artifacts” that were prohibited from being sold in charmed forms _were_ rather arbitrary, and it made no sense to restrict _wizard_ ownership of charmed objects.

She continued reading. Abolish the Centaur Liaison Office on the grounds of “unyielding centaur isolationism, contempt for humans, and danger to the civil servants who attempt diplomacy.” Ouch. That was… fairly accurate… but it still hurt Hermione’s idealistic sensibilities.

Prune the Improper Use of Magic Office. Hermione wasn’t sure what she thought about that. She had not had good experiences with them—or, rather, her friends hadn’t—in her old life, but the office did seem to serve a purpose in theory.

She reached the section that mentioned other offices that Tom wanted to move to the Office of the Minister. The Office of Magical Refugee Relations, another new creation, which helped refugees fleeing Muggle Communism… the Magical Resistance Liaison Office, which handled relations with the people who remained in the Soviet bloc and headed shadow governments. Tom wanted those. Hermione _really_ was not sure what she thought about _that._ Why did he want those offices? Perhaps he wanted the latter to help protect Grindelwald if Grindelwald became a resistance leader, but he certainly could not admit that to anyone. The International Magical Cooperation Head wouldn’t like this. There would be a fight over those, Hermione suspected.

The next item was “Move the Auror Office from DMLE to the Office of the Minister.”

“You want the _Aurors?”_ Hermione burst out. Why on _earth_ did Tom want—she had to call it as it was—a powerful security force that answered only to him?

Tom’s hard gaze instantly snapped to her. “As the list says, my _dear,_ it makes sense for the Aurors to answer to the Minister. They are not just used for domestic law enforcement these days. Whenever they have to deal with something in the East, it requires the approval of Law Enforcement, International Cooperation, _and_ the Minister. Better to cut out the extra bureaucracy.” He was staring at her very pointedly, silently ordering her not to question him further.

Hermione felt a surge of irritation flare up inside her. Heedless of the low murmurs around the table, she raised an eyebrow defiantly at him. “Tom, you would raise bloody hell if you were still Law Enforcement Head and the Minister wanted to take the Aurors.”

Someone chuckled quietly. Tom stared at the wizard, silencing him. Then he turned to Hermione with a smirk. “Of course I would,” he agreed. “That’s my whole point. I expect the Department Heads not to like several of these, because they are focused on their own offices more than the _greater good._ But I’m _not_ Law Enforcement Head anymore, so I see the big picture and understand the advantages of having the Aurors answer directly to the Minister.”

Hermione glared back at him. _No, you just want to arrogate power to yourself,_ she thought, staring right at his eyes, hoping that he would read her thoughts.

He apparently did, because his smirk widened.

“Minister,” one of Tom’s people said tentatively, “we’re all prepared to stand behind you, but there _will_ be objections, I fear. The Aurors—traditionally, they’ve been in Law Enforcement, but your reasoning is sound. I’m more uneasy about these Resistance and Refugee offices. It’s not clear to me why the Minister’s Office needs them.”

Tom sipped his drink. “Frankly, Greengrass, I don’t have my heart set on both of them. The one that I really want is the Resistance Liaison office. Those people—their heads—are in effect the heads of government in the East. When they have dealings with Britain, they should talk to the Minister for Magic, not a bureaucrat. But I know International Cooperation will object to that, so I’m asking for both offices for strategic reasons. I don’t like ‘losing,’ of course, but the idea is to satisfy International with Refugee Relations instead of having a duel—figuratively speaking—over the office I actually want.”

The low chatter subsided. Tom finished his drink and regarded the people at the table. “My friends… I realize that this may appear to a few of you as a power grab.”

 _That’s because it is,_ Hermione thought mutinously, trying not to betray her thoughts.

“But I’ve studied the actual powers of the Minister, and in my view, the position isn’t nearly powerful _enough._ The Minister can set major policy, of course, but so can Department Heads. Because they control these powerful offices, Department Heads can _de facto_ act independently of the Minister, and when it comes to major domestic and foreign policy, they really shouldn’t be able to. I took advantage of that as Law Enforcement Head, of course, but I’m sure we all understand about using the system that we have to get things done.” He smirked.

Hermione gazed around the table. To her amazement, the others seemed to be accepting this explanation.

“So I can count on all of you, I trust? I really do want to improve the Ministry, and these early days are critical. It would set our entire faction back if we didn’t stand united.”

Nods and murmurs of agreement. Tom briefly met Hermione’s eyes again. She stared back defiantly at him.

* * *

“I wish you would control yourself better,” Tom grumbled as they hung up their robes that evening. “You do realize I wouldn’t tolerate that from anyone else.”

Hermione glared at him. “Someone needed to say it. If you think you can make the Aurors into your personal security force without anyone raising objections—”

“Of _course_ there will be objections.”

“Then it’s better for them to be discussed openly at your meeting.” Hermione stared. “I do understand your rationale. I haven’t studied the powers of the Minister as much as you have, I’m sure… but this does look like a power grab, and I have to ask you, now that we’re alone, just how much of this has to do with ‘improving the Ministry.’ I think it’s because you _personally_ want all this power.”

He gripped her sides, a smirk bursting on his face. “Of course I do,” he hissed, his fingers pressing against her. He backed her against the nearest wall and began to stroke her sides lightly. “The International Cooperation Head is one of Ignatius Tuft’s retainers, and this new Law Enforcement Head, Caspar Crouch, isn’t personally dedicated to me. I don’t even know what faction he is, actually. But since it wasn’t a voluntary change of government, I’m stuck with Wilhelmina Tuft’s old careerists for now. I’ll replace them as soon as I’m secure in the job, but do you think I’m going to let bureaucrats who have their own ambitions have power over _my_ work?”

Hermione swallowed, trying to ignore what he was doing to her body. Surely he was just doing this to manipulate her…. “Tom, I understand that you don’t want the programs you built to be mishandled. But the _Aurors?”_

“They never should have been in Law Enforcement in the first place,” he said. “They’re the elite. They should be a national and international security team instead of being dispatched to Stupefy buffoons. It’s a complete disgrace, the way they are used to do things that ordinary Law Enforcement employees can do… and it has even changed the typical meaning of ‘Dark wizard’ for them to be used in this way. It ought to mean ‘master of the Dark Arts’ once again instead of ‘someone the Ministry dispatches the Aurors to catch.’”

Hermione really did not want to hear his rant about the Dark Arts. He held that it was an ancient, traditional, and legitimate field of magic, and that the Ministry had muddied its meaning to something more like “magic that is illegal.” Hermione could see his point, to some extent, but she knew very well that it was largely for personal reasons that he held this view.

“Very well,” she said to him. “You have a case, I’ll grant—but you should be prepared for people to object.”

“I am.” He settled his hands on her waist and gazed pointedly at her.

She tried to look away from his intense gaze, but she could not. His smirk widened.

* * *

The Minister, it seemed, did have the right to shuffle offices around in such a way as to empower the Ministerial office a great deal. The Department Heads could not legally prevent it, short of petitioning the Wizengamot to block a move—but there was no precedent for that. The court could strike down or uphold Ministry laws, but it did not interfere with the internal workings of the organization itself. It appeared that only custom and tradition had kept previous Ministers from arrogating power to themselves.

Hermione kept her ears open while Tom restructured the Ministry to his liking. As they had predicted, there were objections. Even in Hermione’s own organization, some people murmured to themselves about what was happening.

“He says he’s left most of the offices in their original departments,” Caroline Prewett said on lunch break, unaware that Hermione could overhear, “but _which_ offices? The perfunctory, dull ones, not the ones with the real power. He’s taken all the important ones for himself.”

The staffer next to Prewett nudged her and nodded in Hermione’s direction. Prewett subsided. Hermione did not know how to feel about the incident. It bothered her that her staff seemed to think that she would punish them for “disloyalty” not to herself or the organization, but to her _husband._ She and Prewett had had their differences, but Prewett was a competent witch who, in Hermione’s opinion, was qualified to be VP of Research. The woman did not seem to be on Tom’s side in politics, but Hermione was not quite sure what faction—if any—she did support. Well, there were many people who weren’t overtly political, and she was probably one of them.

Other objectors were more public. There was an editorial in the _Daily Prophet_ from new Law Enforcement Head Caspar Crouch, expressing dismay at the “clear disregard for Ministry tradition” that the new Minister Riddle had displayed in his “seizure” of several important offices. Crouch did not openly imply that Tom was going to abuse his newly gained power, which—Hermione admitted to herself—might have been a more effective attack. As it was, Crouch’s piece just came across as a whine, particularly about his loss of control over the Aurors. The public mood was largely on Tom’s side, since the previous Minister’s administration had fallen due to a scandal of humiliating incompetence on the international stage. A strong Minister who made bold moves to improve the Ministry seemed to be a good change to most people.

Tom’s arguments about the Aurors, the international offices, and the other controversial moves _were_ sound. It did make sense for the Minister to have direct control over each of them. But Hermione could not ignore the fact that she knew he was doing this because he wanted the power, and she could not put aside her disquiet. Did he want the Aurors simply for his own pride… or was he planning to do something that might be so controversial that he thought he _needed_ a force answerable only to himself?

The Wizengamot vote occurred in the midst of Tom’s restructure. As everyone expected, the Reformist proposal to empower the Chief passed easily with Nationalist support. However, on the day of the vote, something occurred to Hermione that brought her up short.

The Wizengamot could remove the Minister for Magic.

Tom was not currently pursuing the Chief spot, but he almost certainly would do so eventually. The current Chief was old but not in ill health, and the Reformists jockeying to succeed him were unexceptional. No particular one of them seemed capable of consolidating support from within that faction. Tom might very well have a clear path when—and Hermione did not doubt for a second that it would be _when_ —he eventually went for the spot himself.

The Wizengamot could remove the Minister for Magic, and with the change, the Chief Warlock alone would have the power to call for a vote. If Tom became Chief Warlock, he could remain Minister as long as he wanted provided that he didn’t lose two-thirds of the body.

Nobody else seemed to realize that, and Hermione was not about to be the one to call attention to it.

She still voted yes. The Wizengamot _was_ dysfunctional, and something needed to be done about it. Tom wasn’t Chief Warlock _yet._ The current problems had to be addressed. Anything else was borrowing trouble.

Soon after the slight flurry of dust had settled, Tom called his cronies to another meeting at the Serpents’ Chalice. He had a big plan in the works, he said, and he wanted to run it by them first.


	11. Think of the Children

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Minister Riddle has a proposal to integrate more new witches and wizards into the community who are currently being left out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s phase one of Minister Tom’s agenda (and a quick soft-M-rated scene!). It is meant to be a bit morally ambiguous, because the issue Tom is attempting to address is a difficult one: How do you deal with families that hate or fear magic?
> 
>  **Dec. 2016:** This chapter has been slightly edited in light of the _Fantastic Beasts_ film; Tom references Obscurials in support of his plan. (Hermione also calls him out privately for claiming that wizards never abuse their children.) As of the first film, there is excellent accord between my AU and film canon of Grindelwald, but I'm not going to edit the story if a conflict arises later (and _Choosing Grey_ itself is finished, period). I consider film canon and book canon to be separate, but this concept was too relevant not to include here.

A selection of drinks filled the center of the table, and Tom’s coterie sipped theirs, patiently awaiting his word. Hermione had given this some thought, and she was reasonably certain that she knew what he was going to propose—more or less, at least.

He had a small pad of papers in front of him, but he did not seem inclined to distribute these. Perhaps they were his own notes. He brought out his pocket watch—the very one Hermione had given him in seventh year for his birthday, she noted with a rush of pleasure—and called the meeting to order as the second hand reached the top.

“First, the restructuring is going well,” he said. “I’ll want to keep an eye on Caspar Crouch, though. The tone of that editorial… and judging from his air when I have to work with him, I don’t think he respects me. He’s very circumspect around me at the Ministry. Has anyone got any intelligence on his political leanings?”

Hermione could actually answer that one. The Crouch family had donated to her organization, so she had to meet with them and hear their opinions. “I’ve spoken with him. He gave my organization money, so he certainly wanted to express his thoughts. I got the impression that he has some traditional Isolationist sentiments, but that he is not like—say—Orion Black, or Abraxas Malfoy. He believes himself enlightened. Maybe even privately considers himself a Reformist,” she added, “and wants to distance himself from the hardliners’ views. That type.”

Tom raised an eyebrow at her, apparently surprised that she had not told him that in private.

 _You didn’t ask,_ she thought, meeting his eyes. _I didn’t realize you wanted to know._

He apparently read her thoughts, for he faced the group again. “In that case, he certainly bears watching. He and that son of his.”

There were chuckles from a couple of Tom’s cronies, who worked in Law Enforcement. Barty Crouch—the very same one that Hermione remembered as the International Magical Cooperation Head from her timeline—was currently a Ministry employee.  He had a brusque, rigid, punctilious manner, and no one thought he had good people skills, but Hermione agreed with Tom’s assessment that he bore watching.  She knew what he would be capable of someday.

“Next… the policy agenda.”

Everyone who was chuckling stopped at once and sat up, paying close attention.

“I had my reasons for moving certain offices under my direct authority,” he began. “The plan I implemented as Law Enforcement Head to integrate Squib parents and siblings has gone well, I think we can agree.” His gaze briefly shot to Geoffrey Fox, Head of the Office of Non-Magical Families. “I wanted Non-Magical Families, Social Welfare”—another quick look at someone—“and Adoption and Fostering under my direct control because I expect some opposition to my forthcoming… expansion… of the program, and I did not want the Department Heads to be able to give conflicting orders or anything else that would cause delays.”

Hermione looked at her glass. Her suspicions about Tom’s next plan appeared to be correct. She was determined not to appear shocked when he revealed it.

“Some of you may not know that we currently do _not_ assimilate all witches and wizards born outside the magical community,” he said.

Several people raised their eyebrows in surprise and dismay.

“It’s true. We don’t,” Tom continued. “We never have. When the Ministry or Hogwarts representatives encountered a family resolutely opposed to magic, they would Obliviate the parents of their visit and not contact them again, except in secret to handle the child’s accidental magic. It’s an early Seclusion-era policy meant to protect us from Muggles who thought we trafficked with demons, and that never went away entirely in the Muggle world… but there are more, now, who would hate and fear us simply because they would think us ‘freaks.’” His lips curled.

Hermione thought about Harry and the Dursleys. There had been an exception for him, but perhaps it was because the Dursleys were not his parents, or because he had been—would have been—a special case, necessary for victory in a war.

The wizards and witches at the table were murmuring amongst themselves in disapproval and outrage. Geoffrey Fox bore a look of cynical non-surprise, as did Tom and Hermione.

Tom tapped the table with his fingertips, and the rumble of noise subsided. “I think we can all agree that this is unfair to these magical children. What I propose is to change the way we handle these situations—radically so.”

Hermione held her breath, waiting for it.

“I’ve considered a couple of options for doing this, and what I have decided to do is to use Memory Charms and… other mind magic… to change their ignorant opinions.”

Hermione’s gaze shot to him in surprise. She had really expected him to say he was going to seize the children, put them in his foster care system, and Obliviate the families of their existence.

He met her eyes and smiled knowingly at her. “I _had_ considered something else, but it’s not politically viable, and I don’t want to do it for other reasons either.”

“What did—” someone started to interrupt.

Tom silenced him with a hard look. “I’ll explain in a bit. Now… to do this, I’ll have to make some revisions to the existing Squib laws. _My_ laws, ironically. Squibs are protected against this very sort of mind magic now… and all parents and siblings of these children are designated Squibs. I don’t want to reverse _that,_ but the Squib laws do have to be amended to accommodate this.”

 _Here it comes, then,_ Hermione thought. Of course there was a catch.

“I’m going to propose a new class: _Protected_ Squib. All current Squibs will receive that designation immediately, but in the future, newly found Squibs will only get it if they are friendly to magic. Otherwise, they’ll have Floo connection rights, housing rights, and so on—but they will not be protected against mind and memory magic, for obvious reasons.”

A storm of chatter arose at the table immediately. Several people, including Fox, were frowning with concern. Hermione was concerned too. “Friendly to magic” was _extremely_ vague. Even her own parents had been alarmed at first to hear of the existence of magic. Most people who had lived their whole lives in the Muggle world probably would be.

She decided to speak her concerns. “Tom,” she began.

The din quieted at the sound of her voice. No one wanted to talk over the Minister’s wife in his presence, it seemed.

He gazed at her speculatively.

“When you say that they have to be ‘friendly to magic,’ what, _precisely,_ do you mean by that? Most people would be uncertain about magic when they learned about it for the first time. We can do things that they can’t. We have powers they don’t. It seems highly unrealistic to me to expect everyone to immediately be comfortable with magic. There should, at least, be a grace period, or _something.”_

Geoffrey Fox nodded pointedly. Probably he had had the same experience as a child.

Tom considered. “You’re right; the law would be more specific than that. I mean that they don’t have ingrained bigotry. I can make allowances for initial fear and concern. The Ministry and the school know how to talk to them about _that._ I mean people who don’t respond to what we already do.” He thought a bit more. “A family that either considers it demonic, evil, disgustingly freakish, or that refuses to let their child receive a magical education—whether at Hogwarts or otherwise. I’m not going to let prejudiced Muggles or Squibs deprive magical children of their birthright,” he added, his voice slightly raised.

One witch voiced another objection. “I’m not saying I disagree with you, Minister, but the Reformists won’t like it one bit if we advocate to meddle with the memories of Squibs to alter their beliefs.”

“Some of them probably won’t,” Tom agreed, “but _who_ enfranchised Squibs? Who granted Squib rights to all these new people? Not the Reformists. And the Ministry alters Muggles’ memories all the time, whenever someone has a magical accident around them.”

 _They do,_ Hermione thought, _but those are one-time events and short periods of memory. The Ministry doesn’t change anything significant about the Muggles when they do that. This is different._

Her stomach suddenly lurched as something occurred to her. _But—in the other timeline, I wiped out all my parents’ memories of me. I changed their ambitions. I planted a life-altering idea in their minds that had not been there before. I meddled with their lives much, much more significantly than Tom is proposing to do, and they were not even magic-haters. I did it because I thought arrogantly that if I died, they would be better off if they did not even remember me. I’ll never get to talk to them again, and_ that _was the last thing I did when I still had them. Tom is only saying to change one opinion of people who have wrong ideas about magic._

 _But still. The children benefit from it, but don’t their parents have the right to hold those views, even repulsive as they are? Or… does that right stop once they start depriving their children of_ their _rights? Is magical education a right for wizard children? I think it is, since they will always have magic… it is an immutable part of them… so their rights do come first._

_But where does this end if it becomes official Ministry policy to mess with people’s thoughts like this? How can anyone be sure that this really will be limited to “unprotected” Squibs and anti-magic bigotry? Where do we redraw the line after we cross it?_

Hermione honestly could not answer that question.

A low rumble of talk had started up again as people muttered to those sitting next to them about Tom’s proposal. She was wrapped up in her own conflicted thoughts, but she was not oblivious to the chatter around her.

Neither was Tom. He cracked his knuckles and faced the table with a seemingly tolerant, patient look on his face as the chatter subsided. Hermione knew that it was a façade, and that he never liked having to explain his decisions, but it was a good façade.

“I know that some of you are concerned about this, but it’s our best option. Moderate Reformists like the current law because they think it ‘respects Muggles,’ and moderate Isolationists like it because it keeps hostile Squibs from knowing about magic, but we can change their minds if we explain what it _really_ does.” He regarded them with frost in his face. “Wizarding children are raised by magic-hating parents and don’t go to Hogwarts. The Ministry has to monitor their every move for accidental magic. If the parents punish them for magic, we probably won’t get there in time to stop it. It could be extremely abusive and even threaten the wizarding child’s life. In the absolute worst-case scenario, the child may develop a parasitic magical force called an Obscurus—”

There were gasps around the table.

“—which, in addition to being a grave threat to Secrecy, will eventually kill the child.” He looked deeply angry for a moment, but sipped his drink quickly and continued. “If the children do survive childhood, they go untrained and are asked at eighteen if they want to join our world. By then, most of them are prejudiced against magic themselves—especially if they know on some level that they can do it. Self-loathing can be powerful,” he added darkly, glancing briefly at Hermione.

Hermione wondered if that was a private reference to the old timeline. He would have become that exact type of self-loathing zealot without her influence, but over blood purity.

“Even if they haven’t adopted their parents’ views, they don’t want to join a community where they’ll always be outsiders. No Hogwarts education, no mentors, no friends from school. So we lose them—and if they hate magic and have magical children of their own, we lose that generation too. _That_ is our current law.” He regarded his people pointedly.

There were rumblings across the table. Hermione considered what he was saying. He was _good,_ she had to admit. She had been skeptical of this plan and had serious misgivings, but she was all but convinced now. It was wrong for these children’s prospects to be blighted by narrow-minded parents. Pro-Muggle people might worry about wizards controlling Muggles with magic, but the alternative was for ignorant Muggles—or Squibs—to control magical children with fear and hate. Hermione ultimately had to take the children’s side. Harry was the only wizarding child in a hostile family for whom the powers that be—the alternate powers that be—would ever make an exception, and even he had still been subjected to verbal and physical abuse.

 _I’ll have to point that out to him,_ she decided.

“Now, we _could_ take the children away from their families and adopt them out. That was my other thought. But if there are any non-magical siblings, they won’t get introduced to our world, so we probably lose the potential they have to have magical offspring. If the parents have another _magical_ infant later, we’d have to take that baby too, and the same family might not adopt it. I just don’t like it. I have two children, and I don’t want to separate siblings or break up families.” He glanced at Hermione, an aura of uncharacteristic vulnerability passing over him that was apparently only for her eyes.

That was not a cynical appeal to sentiment. It was sincere, Hermione realized with a rush of affection for him. He really didn’t want to break up a family without good reason, even if the parents were non-magical. Some of it was probably personal. He did believe, with justification, that his Muggle father had abandoned him out of hatred for magic, and he had confessed to her that he sometimes wished his mother had continued to drug him. But he had come to care about more than just his own grievances since their children were born.

“And on a pragmatic level, we’d have no support for that from moderate Reformists. We _might_ get some Isolationists, but not many.” His gaze darted from face to face, the exposed, vulnerable look in his eyes transmuting back into contempt with the turn of his thoughts. “Some of our _opponents_ speak of another choice. The most extreme blood purists would propose murdering these children as infants—little _witches and wizards.”_

There was a rumble of disgust at that.

Tom put his hand up. “I’m only pointing out that they say it amongst themselves, do they not, Vincent?” He looked pointedly at Vincent Rosier, who was one of the most pureblooded of the inner circle. Hermione recognized that Tom was subtly calling out his family ties.

Rosier looked unhappy, but he had no choice but to confirm. “There are people who say it.”

“And it’s obviously vile, but it _is_ a way of handling the issue.” He peered at his associates with a faint asymmetric smirk on his face, confident of his argument. “So. Permit the abuse and brainwashing of wizards and lose them to the Muggle world, kidnap children, or commit infanticide.” His smirk widened, and he raised an eyebrow pointedly. _“Or…_ go with my proposal and alter the families’ magic-hating views.”

“Well, when you put it like _that,”_ murmured Geoffrey Fox.

Hermione spoke up. “I think that removal from abusive homes still should be on the table,” she remarked.

Tom looked quickly at her, his eyebrows rising in surprise.

“Not a first option, obviously,” she clarified, “but in the Muggle world, children can be taken from households where they are physically abused. If that sort of thing is going on, we ought to intervene.”

“I agree,” Fox said. “It’d have to apply to wizarding families too, though. Otherwise the Reformists would say there was a double standard.”

“I have no problem with that,” Tom said. “It’s not as though wizarding families actually do that. I’ve never heard of it happening, at least. I can privately reassure the moderate Isolationist crossover supporters that it’s only there to placate Reformists.”

Hermione wanted to roll her eyes at that statement. Wizards were human too. In fact—she realized—his own mother had been abused. But whatever Tom might want to believe, or assert, if this made it into the law, it would be enforceable.

Tom sipped his drink again. “If you’re concerned about the politics, I know that this is a big change, and that there will be some controversy. We can tell the public what the most extreme Isolationists would do instead—“

“Most of them don’t actually want to murder babies,” Vincent Rosier supplied.

“A few do, and we should make them own it. We should also attack the current law relentlessly. If the debate is about our proposal, the implication is that the status quo is acceptable. It’s not. We can explain _exactly_ what price the wizarding world pays to put ‘Muggle rights’ ahead of magical children’s rights.” He sneered in contempt for a moment before continuing. “We’ll mention removal and fostering as a harsh alternative that we so _reasonably_ aren’t going to do—except for physical abuse, as my wife said. All of this will make my proposal look positively benign… as, of course, it is,” he added smugly. “I think the population will see it as the option that’s in everyone’s best interest.”

* * *

Tom was surprisingly affectionate that evening. He continued to hold her around the waist even after they had Apparated to their home and gone inside.

“I’m glad you spoke up,” he murmured against the side of her ear.

She stifled a snort. “Tom, you should know that I’m going to speak up if something occurs to me that bothers me.”

“Well, it’s good that you did. I think you know more about the subject than I do, since you lived it.”

“So did you,” she said, surprised that he would acknowledge that. “That Muggle orphanage.”

He planted a kiss on her cheek and began to steer her upstairs. “It wasn’t the same at all. I think they _wanted_ to be rid of me… and then, once I joined the Ministry, I looked into it and discovered that it _was_ legal to meddle with _their_ minds to let me attend Hogwarts. They were employees of an institution, not family members. I think wizarding law must want to ‘respect families’ or something of the sort, even when it means that magical children are abused by Muggles.”

“Tom,” she said tentatively, “about what you agreed to tonight, allowing children to be taken from physically abusive homes… you do remember that your own mother was abused, right?”

He looked startled for a moment, then embarrassed, then defensive. “She wasn’t forced to suppress her magic, so she wouldn't have become an Obscurial.”

“She was still abused and at risk of rape and murder by her own family. Are you prepared to have the Ministry take children out of that kind of home even if the family is magical?”

Tom glowered, pausing for a moment. “Yes,” he finally spat. “Anyone who would do that to a fellow wizard is a disgrace to magic and doesn’t deserve to raise magical children.”

“In my old life,” she said, “I had a friend who was raised by a magic-hating family of Muggles—his aunt and uncle.” She thought about it. “They would sometimes lock him in his room without food, and he couldn’t even use magic to escape because of the underage sorcery ban.”

Tom snarled in disgust. “That’s inexcusable. I see why you wanted to have that child abuse provision now. But this is why these laws have to be changed. They put Muggles ahead of wizarding children. At least the underage magic ban is gone, though.” He thought for a moment. “How did you meet this boy if he was from that kind of family?”

“Dumbledore made a special exception for him,” she said bitterly. “He was critical to the war effort. And even then, nobody ever tried to make the Muggles stop abusing him. He could have starved to death in his room one summer if I hadn’t sent him food by owl post.”

Tom’s jaw twitched in anger. “Considering what Muggles did to his sister, it is _astounding_ to me that Dumbledore would go on to allow another pack of despicable Muggle magic-haters to abuse a wizard child simply for being magical. Maybe his hands were tied by the law, I suppose,” he said in a rare and surprising moment of fairness, “but that’s exactly why I have to make these changes.” His hands trailed to her hips. “But enough of him.”

With a smirk on his face, he reached under her legs and lifted her up effortlessly. Her eyes widened in surprise. He carried her bridal-style up the stairs and into their bedroom, finally throwing aside the heavy green drapes of their canopy bed and setting her down on the mattress.

She stared back at him, astonished and pleased. “You _did_ enjoy this evening.”

He smirked predatorily, his eyes darkening with lust. “You’re really my best advisor, you know.” He mounted the bed and hovered partially over her, reaching for her wrists. “And I think I need to… _promote_ you for it.”

Her breath caught in her chest. “Tom—”

“Don’t call me that,” he said in a low hiss.

“What do you mean?”

He ran a single finger down the sensitive skin of her neck. “Think about what I just said.”

Hermione suddenly realized what he likely meant. _“Oh,”_ she said. A smirk formed on her face, and she lowered her head slightly, gazing back at him from lidded eyes. “Well, in that case, _Minister_ Riddle, I accept your promotion.”

His dark eyes gleamed with approval. “Of course you do.” With a single sharp movement of his wand arm, he bespelled the drapes shut.

* * *

Tom made his policy announcement the very next day in a grand room just off the Ministry Atrium. Flags depicting the Ministry of Magic emblem and the Nationalist Ouroboros stood on poles on either side of his podium, rippling faintly, as he gave a speech version of the explanation he had made at the Serpents’ Chalice. Ministry bureaucrats, reporters, and interested citizens filled the room.

“That’s what we do now,” Tom concluded, his voice pitched to the crowd. “We lose _witches and wizards_ to protect the ‘rights’ of ignorant Squibs who think we’re dangerous freaks or demon-possessed monsters.”

There was a low murmur among the crowd. Hermione was almost certain she caught someone muttering the phrase “blood-traitors.” She was also sure that it was one of Tom’s Nationalists.

“The status quo is unacceptable, and it is time to change it. My proposal is the most sensible and compassionate option we have, and I look forward to your support as we implement it.”

Septimus Weasley, a leading radical Reformist in the Ministry, stood up. He put his wand to his throat to amplify his voice and called out a question. “Minister,” he said, his lip visibly curling at the title, “how many Muggle-born children are _actually_ raised by magic-haters?”

Some Nationalists were attempting to change the common usage from “Muggle-born” to “Squib-born half-blood”—or just “Squib-born.” Extreme Isolationists had their own preferred term, of course, but extreme Reformists also refused to use the new phrase, which they regarded as “erasing Muggles from their heritage.” Although this was not important to Tom personally, language was a weapon and he understood Weasley’s implicit attack perfectly well.

He stared Weasley down. The bespectacled man blinked first and looked down at his own shoes. _“One_ is too many,” Tom said, the corners of his mouth curling slightly in triumph. “They are witches and wizards, and their parents are _wrong_ about magic.” He gazed out at the whole audience. “Whatever our political differences, we can all agree about _that._ Their parents are wrong. They hold views better suited to the burning times, and their ignorance should not condemn _one single child_ to a life of lost potential.”

There was a rumbling of applause from Tom’s group.

He smiled, acknowledging it, and then held his hand up for silence. “But there is also a pragmatic reason why one is too many. When the present law was written, the Muggles who hated magic did so from religious intolerance, and news traveled slowly. That is not so now. They have fast communication, so any untrained witches or wizards could be discovered by Muggle governments before we could stop it, and the secret of magic might be impossible to contain. That is a risk to every one of us. The Muggles have nuclear weapons, and I assume all of you know what those can do.”

Looks of disgust and contempt filled various people’s faces.

“So the Muggles have a dangerous situation that is _entirely_ of their own making, but there are some among them who would scapegoat _us_ if they knew of our powers. They would call _us_ national security threats, and insist on identifying, controlling, or possibly even eliminating us in fear of what we could do with their apocalyptic arsenals. We cannot afford the risk of untrained witches and wizards being exposed to hostile, fearful Muggles.”

Weasley muttered under his breath in disapproval of Tom’s rhetoric, but most people in the room were convinced by this argument.

* * *

In the days following Tom’s announcement, other voices did come forward. The _Daily Prophet_ carried all sides of the discussion. Abraxas Malfoy penned a piece arguing that it was a bad idea to assimilate people from families that were opposed to magic and then rely only on Memory Charms to protect Seclusion. In response, Tom had one of his people write a letter pointing out that the policy had _always_ been to rely on Memory Charms to protect Seclusion, that it was much more dangerous to leave the children untrained, and that magic was their birthright in any case.

Predictably, Septimus Weasley made the argument that it was “creeping supremacism” to encroach upon Muggle rights in this way.  He didn't mention the rights of the children, and he even quoted verbatim from some of the propaganda that Gellert Grindelwald had put out during the war advocating to use mind magic on Muggles. Weasley had been at the pinnacle of his career during the war. It did lend him some credibility, but Tom and Hermione’s capture of Grindelwald—even though he had escaped—still gave them the edge. Tom’s popularity didn’t hurt either.

Others with Reformist leanings had, in Hermione’s view, a more compelling argument. Albus Dumbledore himself wrote a piece that was very eloquent, very thoughtful, and even acknowledged Tom’s points about the children’s rights and wizarding safety, but still expressed concern that the Ministry was going to begin using mind magic to change people’s values. Perhaps _this_ time it was necessary, the Headmaster wrote, but the Ministry had to make it very clear that it would go no farther. This was Hermione’s own concern, which none of Tom’s arguments had yet addressed.

Hermione observed that a strange development seemed to be taking shape. The Nationalists were in lockstep with Tom, and as he had hoped, many moderates from both of the other factions supported them in this policy as well. But the hardliners from the Isolationist and Reformist factions were resolutely against it, though they were coming from completely different rationales.

The odd part was that both groups seemed to be forming a pragmatic coalition despite their differences. The last time it had happened was in continental Europe during the war against Grindelwald, and Hermione could not help but feel some disquiet at that.

But it was easy to ignore politics, to dismiss it as “Tom’s business and Tom’s problem,” while she worked at her own very demanding job. She had a project of her own: planning in-house child care for the children of her employees, those who were too young to attend Hogwarts. Hermione now brought her own two children to work, leaving them with toys and books in her own spacious office, and it had occurred to her that it would be a good socialization experience for others as well. It was a good idea that she felt good about, and she had chosen to become engrossed with that rather than the Ministry business.

That changed when Caroline Prewett, her Vice President of Research, abruptly came to her office and tendered her resignation.

Hermione was shocked and unhappy. She had noticed that Caroline did not approve of Tom’s Ministry restructure, and had seemed unwilling to talk about it with her own work friends if Hermione might overhear, but Hermione had not expected anything like this. Caroline stood before her desk with a pinched face, scowling as she offered a token explanation for her departure: _“I feel that the goals of the organization have changed since I first began to work here, and I cannot give my best effort any longer.”_

Clearly, Tom’s latest Ministry policy had crossed some sort of line with Caroline, and she could no longer work for Tom’s wife or for an organization that she believed was a wing of Tom’s political apparatus. Hermione could not disabuse her of that notion, because she could not openly acknowledge it as the subtext of Caroline’s statement.

After Caroline’s departure, Hermione poured herself a strong shot of Ogden’s Old and began to consider her replacement options. The Director of Potions Research was probably the best choice for a promotion to Vice President, she thought, looking at her employee roster—but then she would need a new Potions director to replace him. She looked over her payroll again. A name stood out to her.

 _Well, why not?_ She had only been there for two years, but Catriona Dagworth had grown into her position well. She was a leader among researchers and got on well with most of them. Hermione finally managed a smile as she decided what she would do.

* * *

Tom spent the evening in his private study. Hermione rarely ventured into that room, because she found it cavernous and more than a little bit creepy with Tom’s old-fashioned desk, cabinet of Dark items, and single heavily draped window. She stayed in the family sitting room, cuddling Madeline and Virgil close as they drifted off to sleep.

After she had put them to bed, he finally emerged from the office and poked his head into the sitting room.

“I hope your day was productive,” Hermione remarked.

“It was. I’ve decided what I have to do next. The plan may need some perfecting, and I’ll want to talk about it with the ‘knights of the round table’ first, but I’ve decided on a way to handle our biggest challenge.”

“Oh?” Hermione asked, getting up. She met him at the door and took his hand, ready to go to bed. “And what is that?”

“Population decline.”

Hermione’s gaze snapped to his. _“Decline?_ Really?”

“Really. I’ve been aware of it for a while.”

“Well, yes, so have I, but that was under the old policies. It’s still happening even with all these Mu—Squib families coming in now?”

“I had thought that might stop it, but in the long term, yes, it’s happening even with that.” He wrapped his arm around her waist. “It’s late, and I’ll explain more tomorrow.”

“Tom, I anticipated your Squib family change in advance… it didn’t surprise me _that_ much… but I don’t have a clue of what you mean right now, and I don’t want to be taken by surprise in front of your people again.”

He considered that. “Fair enough. I’ll tell you in private before the meeting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There _would_ be families who hated magic, both religious extremists and secular ones like the Dursleys whose hatred was based on fear of its power. In the books, we never met any other kids from households like that, though. Since we didn’t, and since nobody used mind magic on the Dursleys even to make them stop _abusing and starving Harry,_ I think we can safely infer that magic-haters’ opinions are respected and the kids do not attend Hogwarts.
> 
> In the books, nobody actually had to grapple with this issue (or several others) due to the gross simplification of complex problems. One political faction in the Potterverse had gone crazy, and there was a void of realistic, inclusive (as opposed to pureblood-only) “pro-wizard” thinking to challenge the Muggle-protective kind. The “pro-Muggle” people (Reformists in this AU) didn’t try to improve anything; they just supported the status quo because that was good enough in the face of insane opposition. It was partly Tom’s fault for feeding the lunacy, of course, and this is one thing I’m trying to explore with this AU: What if he didn’t ruin politics? What if wizards actually had to address their difficult problems, and Tom was offering serious, viable, inclusive “pro-wizard” ideas?
> 
> Phase two of Tom’s agenda is going to be a multi-chapter plot beginning with the next chapter, and as hinted, it is going to be a _lot_ edgier than this was.


	12. Wizarding Renaissance, Part I:  Population Curve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Minister Riddle enacts the rest of his family agenda, with a plan for reversing population decline. Hermione does not like it _at all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** This is the first chapter of a multi-chapter plotline that deals with abortion, contraception, and welfare. I’m not going to have anyone say anything blatantly misogynistic, but many readers may consider this plotline to depict a sexist situation. I am not trying to incite arguments about real-world social policy, but rather, to tell a story. I’m also not editorializing about my own views this time. The characters’ positions are their own, opinions that I think would be realistic for them as they have developed in this AU. _Please_ keep this in mind.

Hermione examined the wizarding census records with a contemplative frown. Unlike many witches and wizards, she had learned “Muggle” mathematics, so she was able to do the kinds of calculations needed for population analysis. Tom was right, she realized. The wizarding world was going to experience population decline if current trends continued.

Wizards had longer lives than Muggles by a few decades on average, but by that age, neither witches nor wizards were reproducing. It wasn’t, of course, impossible with most wizards, but it was socially unacceptable for grey, wrinkled old men to marry young women. Infant mortality in the wizarding world was much lower than that in the Muggle world—about eighty percent lower than the Muggle infant mortality rate, in fact—but even with this structural advantage, the magical birth rate was below replacement level and had been gradually declining for decades. The wizarding population would become increasingly grey, and then when the elder generations died, there would not be sufficient numbers in the younger population for recovery.

As Tom had pointed out, even adding in likely magical births to Squib couples would not compensate. In the short term, Tom’s policy making it easier for brothers and sisters of Muggle-borns to meet each other would help, but the long-term numbers were not hopeful. Far more disturbing than wizards’ own declining birth rate was the fact that the magical percentage of all births in the Muggle world was also declining—and had been for a century. No one else had noticed it because, Hermione guessed, they had not examined the overall Muggle birth and population figures. So far, the simple number of magical children from the Muggle world _was_ still increasing, because the non-magical population itself was increasing. But Hermione could see that this was not going to last indefinitely. In a few decades, the number of Muggle-borns— _Squib-_ borns, she corrected herself in thought—would level off and start declining too. If there were fewer Squib-borns, that meant that fewer non-magical people with partial wizarding genes were meeting each other, and that implied that there would be fewer “almost-there” Squibs born in the long term as well. There was also no way to identify such people if no one in the family manifested magic, so the magical genes they carried would be further thinned out. Some process must be taking place right now, must have been taking place for about a hundred years already, that was already thinning the magical genes that existed in the non-magical population.

It was a grim calculation, and she wondered what Tom had come up with to combat the problem. There would probably be a child tax credit, she guessed. Considering that this was the same group of people that had created the sprawling Ministry of Magic, wizarding tax policy was surprisingly simple, with a tiered progressive rate for individual households and a separate progressive tier for businesses. There were few credits or deductions, because so much could be done with magic instead of spending large sums of money. Hermione had pressed hard for a tax deduction for research expenses, since it was so difficult to pay for magical research. There was also a deduction for charitable contributions and educational expenses. It was a good thing that the income tax was progressive, Hermione supposed, since there were virtually no credits or deductions that could make an appreciable difference to people who were not wealthy.

Hermione put aside the population data and stretched as she rose from her desk chair. She headed downstairs and met Tom in the family sitting room. He was standing next to the mantel, robes trailing the ground, gazing idly at the clock.

“I wish I could avoid having these meetings in the evening,” he remarked. “I don’t like leaving the children here by themselves. It isn’t fair or safe to put a seven-year-old in charge of a four-year-old, even when the rooms with dangerous things in them are warded.”

“Why _have_ you held them in the evening?” she asked. “I take the children to work. I could leave them in the care of my staff if you had all your meetings during lunch, or the early afternoon.”

He laughed in disbelief. “You have to ask that? I’ve found myself with rather less time on my hands as Minister than I did even as Law Enforcement Head.” He met her eyes with a calculating look in his own. “We _could_ hire a Squib to sit. I’ve come to agree with you about house-elves—”

Hermione beamed.

He chuckled again. “Not for the same reason, though. I just don’t like the idea of an outsider living in the household, listening to everything we said unless we remembered to ward the door for every conversation we held. They’re _supposed_ to keep their masters’ secrets, but they can disobey. They just have to punish themselves if they do. It’s not good enough security. A Squib sitter would be here only when we were both gone, and she could actually be kept out of any rooms we didn’t want her in. It’s worth considering, at least.” He glanced at the clock. “But anyway, I was going to explain my population growth policy.”

Hermione stared levelly at him, half convinced that he already had made arrangements with some Squib woman and that a sitter would show up in a few minutes. “Very well,” she said. “I read the records and did the maths, so you can skip that part. I understand the problem.”

Tom smiled. “Good. The basic idea for the solution is quite simple: I am going to make the silphium plant a Non-Tradeable Substance. It’s an import, it won’t grow here, and I’m taking it off the market. The Muggles think it’s long extinct, and it has only one potions use.”

Hermione blinked, not quite believing her ears. She had used that potion before. She used it frequently. It was the very potion used to prevent pregnancies or abort them in early stages. She stared at him, her lips parting. “Excuse me?” she sputtered.

He raised an eyebrow. “Is there a problem?”

Anger surged in her. “Is there a _problem?”_ she mocked. “Is that a serious question? Tom, you can’t _do_ that! Women _need_ that potion. What if a witch became ill from a pregnancy?”

“Oh, well, there’s more to the idea than that,” Tom replied. “I’ve already thought about that—and other things. The plant will still be imported, but only through the Ministry. St. Mungo’s and Hogwarts will receive it. If a witch has to end a pregnancy—or has been told by a Healer that it’s unsafe for her to get pregnant in the first place—or she was raped, then she can get the potion from St. Mungo’s.” He smiled at Hermione. “And if a family needs more money, the Ministry will take care of that. We need population growth and I am perfectly fine with the Ministry paying people to have magical children.”

“I had arrived at the same conclusion myself, but there are other ways. You could just tell people of the population decline. There would be some people who voluntarily stopped using the potion once they learned that.”

Tom snorted. “Not nearly enough, and there would be many more who recognized the threat but assumed that _others_ were going to stop using the potion, so they didn’t have to. And you know how that always works out.”

“You could create a child tax credit.”

“It won’t work,” he dismissed. “I’ve looked at the numbers, and this isn’t about lack of gold. Poor families are actually having _more_ children than others. I’m only including the welfare part because of situations like my mother's, where someone really _can’t_ afford a child. I’m going to start taxing the Squib families to pay for that.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” Hermione scoffed. “They’re already paying taxes to the Muggle government. And besides—“

Tom cut her off. “That’s easily enough handled. They can get a credit on their Muggle taxes for whatever they pay in the wizarding world.”

Hermione stared at him in disbelief. He wasn’t being hostile; he just truly did not seem to understand her main objection. “Tom, you’re missing the point. Those exceptions are fine—the welfare policy is fine—but you can’t do that to women. You don’t have the _right_ to make that decision for them.”

He looked legitimately confused. “Hermione, we are talking about women who have consensual sex. That means it’s aimed at _couples,_ which means there’s a man involved too.”

“Men don’t have to carry pregnancies,” she replied tartly. “Also, women—and men—sometimes just want to shag for pleasure. They don’t want there to be even a chance of pregnancy from it.”

Tom smirked. “I am in favor of shagging for pleasure, as you well know, but the wizarding world needs to grow. There are so many married couples with one child, or none at all. It doesn’t matter for Muggles, but it does for us.”

“That’s not your decision to make, and married people aren’t the only ones who will be affected by this. What about the unmarried couples who find themselves expecting when they aren’t ready?”

“If somebody needs financial help, the Ministry will help. And there’s also the foster system. Nobody will have to raise a child if they don’t want to.”

“They might have to be pregnant when they don’t want to, and they’d know the child was still out there. I doubt that’s as easy to live with as you seem to think.”

Tom clenched his teeth. “Then if they don’t want to give it up,” he hissed, “they can keep the baby. I’d prefer that anyway.”

Hermione could hardly believe her ears. _“You_ would prefer that? This shouldn’t be up to you, any of it!”

His face twisted in irritation, and he gazed down at her from his taller height with scorn in his face. “It is the Minister’s job to act in the best interests of the wizarding world,” he said loftily.

“It is _not_ the Minister’s job to interfere with the personal family decisions of every witch of reproductive age,” Hermione snapped, storming away. She stopped, whirled around, and glared at him. “But you’ve already decided, haven’t you? You have it _all_ planned out, and nothing I say could change your mind. You aren’t asking for my thoughts at all; you’re telling me how it is.”

“Hermione—”

“You know what else, Tom? I’m not going to this meeting. I’m not going to sit next to you and pretend I like this while you explain to all your toadies what you’re going to do, and I’m not going to let you trample over me in an argument in front of them. I won’t have it. I won’t be a prop for you on this.”

He stared at her, his eyebrows narrowing. “So you’re staying, then?”

“I am staying. I’m going to think about this and come up with another answer—because there _is_ another answer; there always is—and I hope your cronies consider what it means that I’m not there.” She sat down hard on the sofa and glared defiantly at him.

“Suit yourself,” he sneered. “There is _not_ another answer—at least, not one that would really work. But if you won’t take it from me, then you’ll see for yourself once you think about it.” He stormed out of the sitting room. Hermione heard him Disapparate in the hallway.

She growled in irritation, but it was a futile expression. How could Tom not understand her perspective? Clearly it wasn’t just that she was born in a different time. Witches took that potion for a reason. They already wanted to decide for themselves when or if they wanted to start families and how large those families would be. Her point of view was obviously not so anachronistic that it was unheard of. He just didn’t care about anyone’s personal rights when they conflicted with his opinion of what was the greater good.

Hermione sank into the back of the sofa. She thought about his policy record so far. Some of his laws respected personal liberty and some did not. His Wolfsbane Law would have forced werewolves to take a toxic potion for life if not for Catriona Dagworth’s innovation—but werewolves posed a danger to everyone in their vicinity during the full moon. His plan to modify the views of magic-hating parents also restricted people’s rights—but in that case, it was to protect the rights of another group, magical children. This felt different somehow. There was a danger that he was trying to stave off, but it was a long-term, nonspecific danger.

No alternate answer presented itself to her, and she realized that even the Muggles did not have an answer for this particular problem. Tom wanted to use force. There were also persuasive policies designed to encourage family formation, such as child tax credits and assorted social welfare benefits, but if Tom was correct and poorer families already tended to be larger ones….

She went back upstairs to her desk and brought the records down to the sitting room. It did not take long to see that he was correct about that too.

Would the wizarding world as a whole see the issue his way? Hermione could not say. As he had pointed out, no one seemed to be aware of the danger of population decline. It was possible that when he talked about it, people would be swayed to his view on the policy as well. He certainly had a gift for persuasion.

Hermione realized that she had made a tactical error in choosing to stay home. It would have been immensely trying to sit next to Tom and listen to this again, but she was not going to know now what his cronies thought of the idea at first, before he got to them. Unless there was an open revolt, which was unlikely, the next time she saw them, it would be in public and they would be his loyal subjects as usual.

She sighed. After he had explained his plans to his cohort, he would give an address as Minister. She would attend that and gauge the public reaction.

“Mum?”

Hermione’s musings were interrupted by the welcome sound of her young son’s voice. She glanced up and smiled. Both he and Madeline were standing at the door, clad in their pyjamas, clutching books. Heads of riotous black hair filled the door frame.

“Oh, it’s storytime,” she said as they entered the room and shuffled toward her sofa. She patted each side of where she was seated.

They climbed on the couch. “You didn’t want to go to Daddy’s meeting?” Madeline asked. She handed Hermione the book she was carrying and sat primly on one side. The attempt at ladylike dignity was highly incongruous with the wild hair that the little girl currently sported, but Hermione found it endearing.

“Not tonight,” she replied. “I was feeling tired.”

“Well, I’m glad you stayed here,” Virgil said, squeezing under her left arm as she opened the book. Clearly he felt no need to feign dignity after his bath when asking his mother to read to him.

She smiled at him. “Me too.”

She read to them, combed their hair, put them to bed, and got a bath herself. Just as she had put on her nightgown, she heard the distinct pop of Apparition. Five seconds later, she heard the front door shut on the floor below.

When he entered their bedroom, she wordlessly acknowledged him with a nod.

A sneer crossed his face for half a second. “Just so you know, they were shocked when I talked about the numbers, and they’re behind me with the idea. I’m going to introduce it to the Ministry on Monday, if you care to attend.”

Hermione glared at him. “They’re always behind you with anything by the time you’re through with them, so I’m not surprised. I certainly intend to show up at the Ministry, though.”

“Good,” he said shortly. He stalked into the bathroom to get a shower.

She went to bed, but not before quaffing a dose of the potion. It was an act of private rebellion as much as anything else.

* * *

The press room of the Ministry was packed. Everyone was interested in the revolutionary new ideas that the young Minister was coming up with each month—even, it seemed, those who resolutely disagreed with what Tom and the Wizarding Nationalists stood for. Hermione had a front-row seat, near many of his cronies, but also close to several high-ranking Ministry officials who were not part of Tom’s coterie—or, in some cases, even his political faction. She would pay special attention to their reactions.

Tom stood behind the Ministerial podium, silken wizard’s robes flowing elegantly, sending a message to everyone in the room. Behind him and to the right was a large presentation board with charts. At the moment he was educating the crowd about the population problem, which was easier to do with graphics.

“As you can see, our own birth rate is not close to what it should be for full population replacement,” he said. “Now, some say that the addition of Squib-born half-blood wizards will compensate for the decline in the wizarding-world birth rate, as it has done since we instituted Seclusion. This idea has some historical support, but it isn’t borne out by the facts anymore.”

Tom flicked his wand at the board. The page flipped, displaying a new chart. At the bottom was a progression of years, 1600-1950. Two lines in different colors tracked across the horizontal axis.

“This chart shows, in tan, the British Muggle population in millions. In blue is the percent of magical births as a fraction of the total births to non-magical parents.” He sent a harmless jet of red light toward the left side of the chart to point out a detail. “This number has tracked well with the Muggle population over the centuries. When their numbers increased, the number of Squib-born births increased correspondingly, with the percentage remaining stable. But as you can see, in recent decades the Muggle population has been increasing dramatically, while the magical percentage of births to non-magical parents is actually _decreasing._ The numbers are not tracking anymore.

“This, we think, is because the Muggles have become industrialized rather than agrarian, and they have inventions that make it easier for them to migrate, and it is now much less likely for two non-magical people with wizarding blood to meet. In the past, they were more likely to have a common wizarding ancestor and live in the same village. Now, they scatter.”

_So that’s it,_ Hermione realized. In her irritation over Tom’s “solution,” she had not given too much thought to the reason that new blood was expected to decrease, but this made sense.

Tom stared out at the audience. “I should be clear: The raw _number_ of magical births to people outside the wizarding world is still increasing. But it won’t last. Magical births per total births in the Muggle world are going down. Eventually the raw number will decrease as well. The truth is that we cannot depend on the Muggle population to sustain us. Their society has changed drastically over the past century, and the old expectations aren’t valid anymore.”

A reporter called out, “Minister, the fact that you’re bringing entire families of Muggle-born children into the wizarding world surely is accelerating this trend, by removing them from the Muggle population.”

Tom glared at the reporter, very displeased at the interruption. “The trend, as the graph clearly shows, began last century. My policy is making it _more_ likely for these otherwise-undocumented Squibs to marry each other—or, occasionally, a witch or wizard. My policy _preserves_ their wizarding blood and potential for magical offspring, rather than leaving it to a gradually decreasing _chance_ that they’ll happen to meet someone else with that blood. That helps a little, but it is not enough to offset the long-term trends in the Muggle population.” He stared out, his gaze passing over the heads of the audience. “Members of the press, Ministry officials, honorable Witches and Warlocks of the Wizengamot, eminent academics… my constituents. The simple fact is that here in the wizarding world itself, we have to make some changes. They are not onerous—in fact, they should be very happy changes. I have drawn up a comprehensive plan to address special contingencies as well.”

The audience began to rumble. Those few bureaucrats already in the know—Vincent Rosier, Geoffrey Fox, the head of Adoption and Fostering, the head of Social Welfare—murmured under their breaths. Hermione tried to force the scowl off her face. If this were met with mass revolt, it wouldn’t matter how much Tom wanted it. And if people were uncertain, she still had something to work with. She had to be impassive and gauge the audience’s reaction.

“The central policy of my Wizarding Renaissance Plan is to reclassify the silphium plant as a Non-Tradeable Substance. The plant is used only in potions to prevent or abort pregnancy. After a time, legal imports will be limited to Hogwarts School, for educational purposes, and to St. Mungo’s Hospital, which will be licensed to brew and dispense these potions for select situations—including cases where a witch cannot safely carry a pregnancy to term, or was not a willing partner. The potions will also be permitted for families that already have at least three magical children."

Hermione wondered about that. He had said no such thing to her. Perhaps one of his cronies had suggested it.  She gazed around the room. There were faces hardening. Not all, and it was hard to say if there was a majority, but Abraxas Malfoy looked particularly hostile.

“The Office of Social Welfare will dispense aid to families who need it,” Tom continued. “No one should experience financial distress due to the Renaissance Plan. The purpose—the basic purpose, that is to say—is to create more and bigger magical families, not to impoverish them.” He gazed around the room. A faint smile appeared on his face; apparently he liked what he saw.  "Anyone who simply does not want to raise a child will have the option of putting the child in the Ministry’s adoption and foster care system, with no punishment inflicted.

“A minute ago I said ‘the basic purpose.’ You might wonder if that implies additional purposes, and you would be right. The broader purpose is to promote a culture of strong family in the wizarding world. It is good for our world for there to be a culture that values family—truly values, with actions rather than mere words. No couple should have to limit their family size out of financial fears, and under the Plan, they won’t have to.” He flashed a white smile at the crowd, and Hermione was grimly impressed at how well he was selling this.

“On the other hand, there may be a deliberate choice in a family for there to be only one child, or the proverbial ‘heir-and-a-spare,’ but the wizarding community takes a loss from it—and not just in dry population maths, but also in unrealized potential. There is, after all, an ancient and honorable history of sons and daughters making their own way in the world because they were not designated the heirs to estates.”

This appeal was obviously aimed at the old pureblood families. Tom apparently thought that a lot of the opposition would come from there. That was… interesting.

“I want to make it very clear: The Renaissance Plan will have no provision penalizing anyone who, because of age or happenstance, cannot have children, or cannot have any _more_ children, or anyone who chooses to remain single,” Tom continued. “But the vision of this Plan is that getting married—or… how to say this?— _acting_ as if you are—”

There were a few appreciative chuckles. Tom smiled that dazzling white smile again, much to Hermione’s irritation, and continued.

“—is a serious matter, and usually should be a step toward family formation, and the Plan’s policies treat it as such. The wizarding world in general needs bigger families, and the Ministry will be prepared to provide any assistance necessary to help members of our community who decide to pursue that goal.”

Tom stepped back from the podium. There was applause, but Hermione noticed that it was not universal. Once it quieted down, people began to shout questions.

“What about these Muggle-born families?” shouted the reporter who had asked Tom the question earlier. “Are they going to be subject to all this?”

Tom smiled suavely. “There will not be exceptions for Squibs simply on account of their being Squibs. The rules about who can get the potion from St. Mungo’s are the same for everyone.”

“But what about this Ministry social welfare?” the reporter persisted. “Is the Ministry going to be subsidizing Squib births?”

Tom glared at the reporter. “It appears uncommon for two Squibs who both have magical siblings—the main group you’re talking about— _not_ to have any magical children if they marry each other. From what we’ve seen, most of the time, they do have at least one. But even if they don’t, that still increases the amount of wizarding blood in that new generation, which makes it a virtual certainty that the generation following it _will_ be magical—so long as the family remains in the wizarding world. If you think of them not as Squibs, but as people with a strain of wizarding blood, it makes sense for the long-term future.”

Hermione could not help but focus on the fact that her husband was basically promoting eugenics with his Renaissance Plan. It just didn’t take the form of killing off the “impure,” as Voldemort would have done.

_Was Tom always going to do something like this?_ Hermione thought. _Was it inevitable, due to his fixation with demography, or could I have stopped it?_

Hermione gazed around the room. There were many approving faces, but also many that looked very discontented indeed. It might be stopped without her help, she realized.

If it did—if someone mounted a challenge that succeeded—then everyone would assume she was on Tom’s side, when in truth, she opposed this. Did that matter, though, as long as it _was_ stopped?

Public opinion was not as important as one’s own conscience, but the idea of _someone else_ preventing Tom Riddle from doing something she didn’t like, while everyone assumed she supported him, bothered her more than she was comfortable admitting. He was _hers._ It was _her_ job to stop him from going too far with anything. Wasn’t it?

_Or have I become as controlling as he is?_

She decided not to worry about that. Tom had opposition, and this time, she was going to see what she could do to leverage it.


	13. Wizarding Renaissance, Part II:  Shady Maneuvers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The supporters and opponents of Tom’s Wizarding Renaissance Plan line up and take their sides. At first Hermione does not realize precisely what this means she’ll have to do, but it becomes clear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! There is a lot happening in this chapter, and it's rather long, but there were quite a number of issues that I wanted to touch upon here. Most of the things that seem "flagged" in this chapter are indeed important.
> 
> I didn't put a note about this in part I, but to anyone who didn't know, silphium was a real plant that went extinct in ancient times. It grew along the Mediterranean coast and was thought to have been a natural contraceptive/abortifacient.

Abraxas Malfoy, as a member of Wizengamot, had filed a petition to challenge the legality of Tom’s silphium reclassification. Others on the Wizengamot, and in politics in general, had speculated about why he had done it; whether they liked it or not, most people agreed that the Minister could regulate a plant that had medical effects. Still, the Chief Warlock had convened a panel of seven magical law experts to examine Tom’s proposal from a legal perspective. If it declared the policy permissible, that was the end of the petition. If the panel declared the policy illegal, it would be instantly blocked. If the panel concluded that the challenge should go before the entire body to be heard, that would happen. In the meantime, the Wizengamot would hold a public forum, and anyone could attend.

Hermione was rather disgusted with the way this was going. Instead of being a sober forum for discussion and debate, this seemed to be a way for anyone on the Wizengamot with an opinion to get on a soapbox. The Wizengamot functioned as a court of law and a parliamentary body, which Hermione found to be a very knotty issue. Currently it was in parliament mode, which meant a rambunctious forum. At the moment, Malfoy himself was determined to be heard.

“The Chair recognizes the Honorable Abraxas Malfoy,” intoned the Chief Warlock in his gravelly voice.

Malfoy stood up, his bottle-green robes tumbling down his lean frame. “I have a serious objection to the Minister’s law, and I speak on behalf of many of our most prominent and ancient families in this. Many of the old families have chosen to be small. The Malfoys, for example, have only one child, unless the firstborn is a daughter.”

Hermione scowled involuntarily at that. Was _everyone_ in this era some type of sexist?

“It is a tradition of our family,” Abraxas continued. “Malfoy sons do their duty, because they know there is no one else who can do it in their place. Family peace is kept, and the line is continued, because there is no squabbling among brothers about who should get what or who has what responsibility. The Minister’s policy would throw some of our pureblood families into chaos.” Abraxas smirked and sat down.

Tom gazed at the Chief Warlock pointedly. “The Chair recognizes the esteemed Minister for Magic,” the old man said at once.

Tom stood up and glared at Malfoy with blistering contempt. “Mr. Malfoy, _some_ pureblood families manage to survive having multiple children. Perhaps the problem you speak of arises not because of the _existence_ of siblings, but because the family does not promote good relationships among them—and tries to control their futures in ways that they find undesirable.”

Malfoy glared at Tom across the courtroom, extremely put out at the insult. Tom gazed back impassively. Caspar Crouch, who was seated behind Malfoy, had observed the exchange with shrewd interest, which neither Tom nor Hermione missed.

Septimus Weasley motioned to be recognized. After the Chief Warlock called on him, he stood up, adjusted his glasses, and turned around to face the Wizengamot. “My friends… rather than bickering amongst ourselves about trade in a potions ingredient, we should consider an alternative answer to our coming population problem.” He gave a curt nod of acknowledgment to Tom, apparently admitting that he accepted Tom’s population analysis.

Hermione sat up at once, curious as to what Weasley had to say.

“My colleagues and I have produced a solution that involves no use of force, merely incentive. Under our proposal, marriages between magical persons and Muggles—which is to say, people entirely outside the wizarding world—would receive an annual stipend of a thousand Galleons for the duration of the marriage.” He turned to the people seated nearest him and smiled, ignoring the murmurs of disapproval from much of the rest of the body.

“Marriages between magical persons and Squibs—so designated under current policy—would be treated neutrally. Future marriages between witches and wizards, however, would be assessed an annual penalty, as would singleness. I propose this,” he said with a smile, “as a wizard who is happily married to a witch, but I recognize that we must do as we have done in the past, and marry Muggles, if we are to survive. It is true that some wizard-Muggle marriages would produce Squib children, but as you have so often said, Minister, Squibs can have magical offspring.” Weasley smiled again and sat down.

Hermione was, if anything, even more appalled. What was _wrong_ with people? Why were they all so determined to involve the government with personal decisions?

The Nationalist faction and its allies burst into a storm of angry objection. This continued for several moments until Tom stood up, his black and silver robes falling silkily down his chest, and glared at the entire Wizengamot. It was a far more effective call for silence than the old Chief Warlock thumping his gavel and wheezing for order.

“Weasley,” Tom said, disdain practically dripping from his lips, “that plan is an overreach. My proposal does not tell anyone whom to marry, just that if they _do_ marry—or conduct themselves as if they are married—then they have a responsibility to procreate if possible. I _really_ don’t think that is unreasonable. Furthermore,” he sneered, “I see nothing in your plan that actually encourages births. You would take money away from certain couples, the very ones most likely to have all magical children. What do you think that would do to _their_ birth rate? I’m going to help magical families, not punish them. Your plan doesn’t do that. It only endangers wizarding security.”

“Minister—” Weasley began to object.

“I am not finished,” Tom said smoothly. “It wouldn’t even be good family policy. My parents were a witch and a Muggle, Weasley. For years I believed that my father was dead, but in my seventh year of school, Barnabas Cuffe of the _Daily Prophet_ informed me that he had only been dead for about a year and a half. From what I can deduce, he deserted my mother before I was born. He abandoned his wife and child and lived with his Muggle family for the rest of his life.” Tom glared at Weasley.

Hermione had to admire the fact that he had implied complete innocence but had not actually told a lie.

“And that’s not uncommon. Squib siblings are one thing, but it is not a good idea for us to marry Muggles who know nothing of our world. The Muggle spouse cannot even be told about magic until after the wedding, you know—the point at which they become ‘family.’ So the magical partner either lies to their intended or breaks the law and risks our security. Individual marriages may work out, but in general they are much more likely to end in estrangement or divorce because of that lie. I will not put an ‘incentive’ for _that_ in our laws. The real problem is that we are not having enough children. _Your_ family is a bit of an exception, historically”—he smirked faintly—“but consider how many people you know who are only children, or who have had only one child. _That_ is the issue, and my proposal is the only one to address it head-on.” He sat down in an angry flourish.

With that, the time allotted for the public hearing was up. The Chief Warlock dismissed the chamber. Hermione avoided the bustle of journalists and public observers shuffling out the door, remaining behind with the other members of the Wizengamot and the Ministry bureaucrats currying favor.

Malfoy and his core group of blood purists formed a cluster. Septimus Weasley and his allies formed another. Crouch wavered between the two before apparently urging the Weasley group to move closer to the Malfoy one. At least, that was what happened; Hermione could not hear what he said to them.

Tom gathered his group into a huddle. “No meeting today,” he said abruptly. “I don’t want to plan anything until the review is in.” He turned to Hermione and gave her a brief hug.

She returned it, feeling the pleasantly warm and firm grip of his arms. A lump formed in her chest at the sight of his face. For the first time in a long while, he looked embattled.

 _Do I really want to oppose him if it means joining up with the likes of Weasley—or even Malfoy?_ she thought. _All Malfoy cares about are pureblood Malfoy sons, and Weasley is just like Tom about involving the Ministry in private matters. He’d penalize people for being single or marrying a witch or wizard. And Tom is right about mixed marriages mostly being unhappy; the same thing is going to happen to Snape’s parents. Still… does nobody see this my way?_

* * *

_A week later._

The Wizengamot review was ready, and it was ready surprisingly quickly. That could mean only one thing. Hermione opened the document, which was divided into two parts: the majority opinion and the dissent. She turned to the first.

 

_Majority Opinion of the Legal Counsel of the High Wizengamot Concerning Reclassification of the Silphium Plant as a Non-Tradeable Substance._

_Written by the Honorable Cassia Brightmore and joined by the Honorable D. Farriman, P. Howell, and I. Scrimgeour_

 

Hermione opened this part of the document and began to read it. As she had expected, the panel had approved the policy. There was little doubt about the outcome; the Minister had very broad authority to dictate trade of imported materials that could affect the functioning of bodily systems. The majority group affirmed this.

What she had not expected was the glowing, almost propagandistic tone of the opinion. Instead of merely declaring the policy to be lawful, these four members of the panel echoed many of Tom’s own arguments in favor of enacting it. When the Chief Warlock convened a legal panel, its composition could vary, so that—in theory—no one could exert pressure in advance or buy off the panel. Evidently Tom had rather a lot of supporters on the Wizengamot.

Hermione turned to the shorter dissent—and then discovered that it was not properly a dissent at all. Written by Valerian Fawley, an Isolationist, and joined by two radical Reformists, this document was designated a “concurring opinion.” These members of the Wizengamot agreed with the majority position that the reclassification was legal and that the Minister had acceptable cause to restrict silphium, but—

 

_“We do not take a position about whether this proposal is good public policy.”_

 

Hermione understood at once. Malfoy had not expected his challenge to overturn the law. Instead, it was an exercise to determine how much political support it had in the Wizengamot. Tom would understand that too, she realized. What she could not figure out was what the opponents of the law intended to do next. The panel had unanimously declared it a legal measure; it would not have a formal challenge in the full court now. Tom’s opponents must have some sort of strategy in mind, though; they meant to exert pressure on him in some way. She would have to find out how.

* * *

Tom was irritable that evening. He downed his after-dinner drinks ferociously, staring into space.

Hermione finally spoke up. “What is the matter?”

He shifted his gaze to her without moving any other muscle. “You didn’t read the Wizengamot opinion?”

“I did read it, and I don’t see why its contents should annoy you at all. You got your way.”

He glowered. “It was closer than I would have liked—those three obviously hate the idea—and if that mirrors the court as a whole, I have reason to be concerned. There’s something else, too. I’ve been observing it for a while, but I learned today—and this opinion supports it—the _bloody_ radical Reformists have decided to team up with the radical blood purists because they think that’s a less offensive option than supporting me, the _supremacist,”_ he sneered.

Hermione glanced at the drink and frowned. How many had he knocked back? She had not been counting, but he sounded tipsy.

She decided not to comment on it. “What do you think they could do, though?”

“It’s bloody obvious what they could do. They’re going to pick someone to challenge me.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. “But you became Minister less than a year ago!”

“These people don’t think I should have become Minister at all. They think I’m too young. The radicals in the Reformist faction really loathe me. They hate that anyone dared to ‘steal away’ any of their precious Muggle-born and half-blood supporters. I’ve single-handedly done more for the wizarding world over the past ten years than their faction has done in its entire wretched _existence,_ yet they _presume_ to—ugh. I’ve had too much.” He pushed the glass away and rested his head on the table.

Hermione got him a glass of water, which she placed in front of him. He grunted in thanks and began to drink it silently. She thought about what he had just said. _A drunken rant or a real danger?_ she wondered. _He has a tendency to be paranoid, but the extreme elements of both old factions have been aligning lately. I’ve noticed it myself. If they propose someone to challenge him, I’d really rather not have to sign up for that. I couldn’t even do it publicly, but I’d prefer that it not come to that at all._

“Maybe you should moderate this stance,” she suggested.

He stared at her with watery eyes. “Hermione, that would look weak and they would pounce. They don’t just oppose me; they hate me. The radical Isolationists think I’m unqualified for my position because I’m a half-blood, and they think I’m a blood-traitor for bringing in all those Squibs. The radical Reformists like Muggles more than they like their own kind, so anything that is ‘pro-wizard’ must be ‘anti-Muggle’ to their pathetic little minds. These people truly despise me, and if I gave either of them anything, it would never be enough. All it would do is make my policies less effective. Their views could doom the wizarding world, and I won’t have it.”

Hermione let the conversation subside into silence and digested what she had just heard. Tom thought that the very future of their people depended on him. It was good that he had introduced so many new ideas into the political discourse, but that sort of thinking could not be a good thing.

“Where are the children?” Tom suddenly asked.

“Playing in the family room, as they usually do after dinner,” Hermione said. “Tom, do you need more water?”

He got up and shoved his chair under the table. “I’m going to see them. I haven’t seen enough of them lately… and neither have you. Come upstairs.”

Hermione gaped at him as he left the room. He had definitely had too much, and although she did not like being ordered about, she wasn’t going to refuse to spend time with her own children—nor was she going to let them see their father like this. She opened the liquor cabinet, took out a bottle of Sobering Potion, and poured a dose of it into his glass.

“Take this,” she said as she met him on the stairs. He took the glass and downed it.

“Good idea,” he grunted as the tension and annoyance melted from his face.

The children had their toys out, which they were making move around the room. Whatever they had been playing, they stopped it as soon as their parents entered the sitting room. Madeline looked guilty, but Hermione could see no evidence of anything broken.

“What have you been up to?” Tom asked her. He had noticed that look too.

She mumbled something. Tom raised his eyebrow at her.

“We went into your study,” she muttered.

Tom looked startled, then alarmed. “I hope you didn’t touch anything. I’ve warned you that there are magical things in there that you’re not old enough to handle.”

“We didn’t,” the little girl said, her dark eyes wide and honest. Virgil looked down at the rug, clearly scared.

There was a cabinet in his personal study that was full of interesting magical artifacts, many Dark, but it was warded. Hermione knew what he was worried about. She knew what else he kept in the room, what book sat innocently on his desk during the day, and thinking about that produced a resurgence of irritation with him. _If he must have the bloody thing, he could at least lock the door._

“I’m glad you told me, but don’t go in there again,” he said. “It isn’t safe for children.” He sat on a sofa and patted the cushions on each side of him. The children scrambled, eager for their father’s storytime. He seemed to relax a bit with them nearby.

Hermione was glad that he didn’t want to punish them. They obviously had just wanted to do something “forbidden” and didn’t do any actual harm, and in any case, he was the one who had the thing in the first place and had left the study accessible to them with it in plain sight on his desk. Perhaps he realized that—well, the latter, at least.

As he read to them, Hermione thought again about his worry that someone would challenge his leadership as Minister. She did not want him to lose his seat, but perhaps he _was_ too used to having everything political go his way. The family man before her was almost like a different person, compared to the politician. He was tender with the children and demonstrative with her. But politically, it was another story. He had risen to fame by deceptively “defeating” Gellert Grindelwald and had bookended his rise to the top with the secret release of the same Dark wizard. He had swept aside people who had been in his way—the elder Blacks, the Tufts, the Lestranges, Septimus Weasley—with the ease of a master chess player taking a hapless opponent’s queen off the board. He ran—no, _ruled—_ his Nationalists with virtually no dissent. He was so used to getting what he wanted that he thought it was weak to compromise.

 _Perhaps what he needs is a good challenge,_ she thought. _Not a loss, but a challenge. Perhaps he’ll realize then that he has to back down sometimes._

That night, as she lay sprawled across him, their chests rising and sinking in tandem but all the sounds inaudible from the outside by the spells on the heavy draperies, she wondered if she really wanted to go through with a challenge.

She quickly dismissed that doubt. Being intimate with him was normal and expected. Caring about him, being attracted to him, and having a good marital and family life didn’t mean that she had to go along with everything he did professionally. After all, she had committed years ago to pulling him back if he went too far, and not only for the wizarding world, but for his sake too.

* * *

The rumor on the Wizengamot was that Caspar Crouch was going to challenge the Minister. He would never admit to it openly—whenever someone outside his own clique asked him, he would smile suavely and claim that he was merely “exploring his options”—but everybody knew. He just wasn’t going to call for a no-confidence vote unless he knew he had enough supporters on the Wizengamot to win that and become the replacement. It was a shadow campaign.

Curiously, he seemed to be angling for the blood-purist Isolationists more than the Weasley cohort. The radical Reformists were not actually structured enough to have a leader, but Weasley was the person Hermione recognized best of that group, and he had an air of figuratively holding his nose whenever he was around Crouch. Meanwhile, Crouch was constantly huddled with Abraxas Malfoy, who it appeared was the _de facto_ leader of the Isolationist radicals. That surprised Hermione, who had pegged Crouch as one who at least paid lip service to tolerance. His son Barty would go on to be quite ruthless in his job, but Hermione had never heard that he had the slightest interest in blood purity politics. That didn’t necessarily indicate that his father thought the same, but families did seem to strongly influence their children’s political views in the wizarding world. _Of course,_ she reminded herself, _with there being a third political faction now, a lot of things must have changed._

Hermione remembered suddenly that in the alternate timeline, Barty Crouch would cut a deal with Abraxas to keep Lucius Malfoy out of Azkaban despite the fact that the younger Crouch had to know he was guilty. Perhaps there was a long-standing association between the two families after all. Of course, they were both the purest of the pureblood, so it was probable.

If radical Isolationists had been the only supporters of this shadow challenge, Hermione would have had a very difficult time doing what she finally decided to do. However, Septimus Weasley and his crowd were also—tentatively—offering their support to Crouch behind the scenes. Hermione swiped some Polyjuice Potion from her research division one day, disguised herself as a Muggle woman she had passed by chance on a walk, and actually went into Merlin and Arthur’s, which was the unofficial Reformist tavern much in the same way that the Serpents’ Chalice was the Nationalist one. There she listened to what the regulars in the common room had to say. It wasn’t the same as gathering intelligence from insiders and top officials, but it was something.

A large painting purportedly of a crowned, handsome King Arthur and his wizened old advisor hung above the bar. A sinister-faced Morgana le Fay lurked in the background, trying to harm the noble Muggle king, but Merlin was enchanted to keep an eye on her. The painting was just about as subtle as the Nationalist Ouroboros in its symbolism, which was to say, not in the least. At the moment, Hermione found the fact that a witch was placed in the villain’s role to be rather distasteful, but she tried not to think too much about it. She was here for intelligence gathering, not art criticism. She ordered an ale and tried to look as if she belonged.

“He’s not really trying to hide his true colors anymore, is he?” a stubble-bearded young wizard with a foaming tankard shouted to the wizard next to him.

“A supremacist,” the other one agreed. “I knew it as soon as he took the Aurors.”

 _“I_ knew when he reversed the underage sorcery ban, the last thing protecting Muggle-born families.”

“And now he says we got to out-breed the Muggles or they’ll overrun us.” He spat derisively. “Sounds like _you-know-who,_ it does.”

Hermione almost choked on her drink. They meant Grindelwald, of course, but hearing that particular phrase used in conjunction with Tom….

The older wizard lowered his voice. “I wonder if he really means to capture you-know-who again. He was a hero, and I respect that, but he isn’t a bright-eyed idealistic kid anymore. He hasn’t said a word about sending a mission to get him.”

The younger, stubbly one frowned. “Not so loud with that kind of talk.” He briefly gave a pointed look in Hermione’s direction.

“Oh, don’t worry about me,” she spoke up at once. “We’re all friends inside these walls.”

The younger wizard visibly relaxed. “So what do you think about Grindelwald?” he asked her.

Hermione had not expected to hear this. The Reformist radicals were apparently obsessed with the last war and the great “supremacist” villain of their time. She chose her words carefully.

“Well,” she said, “it’s probably difficult to do anything in Eastern Europe now, since all the magical governments are underground.”

“And that’s another thing,” the young wizard said, quaffing his ale. “Why? The Muggles decide to rule themselves, overthrow their aristocrat tyrants, and then all the wizards think they’ve got to sever contact with the heads of government. I think Grindelwald would find the east ripe for him, ripe indeed.”

Hermione was astonished at this degree of naïveté. Russian and eastern wizards were in hiding to avoid being identified and exploited by paranoid, nuclear-armed Soviet states. It had nothing to do with Muggle “self-rule,” which wasn’t even how those governments worked.

She knew she couldn’t say that to this crowd, though. “It probably would be,” she said lamely. “I expect that’s why he went there. But it’s still a difficult problem.”

“Crouch would get him,” the older wizard declared.

The younger one agreed instantly. “He would. I wouldn’t even mind if _he_ had the Aurors.”

“I’ve heard….” Hermione hesitated. “I’ve heard that Crouch might mount a challenge.”

The older wizard nodded sagely. “I hope he does. Crouch is not my first choice… I mean, he’s in with Malfoy… but—”

“He needs Malfoy,” the younger one said. “It’s strategic. All the ‘moderates’ are lining up with bloody _Riddle._ Reformists in name only, they are.” His face twisted into an ugly snarl. “We ought to tell the bastards to go on and wear that damned _sign,_ the snake and wand, and take _our_ faction back.”

Hermione had heard enough. She paid for her drink, gave the wizards a false smile, and left, thinking about what she had heard.

Crouch absolutely could not _win,_ she decided. Malfoy’s people did not need to gain any more influence, but neither did people like that. Crouch himself might be reasonable—Hermione’s own admittedly limited experience with him suggested that he wasn’t a radical of either stripe—but if he owed his political ascent to radicals, his agency would be limited.

For a moment she reconsidered her plans. Tom’s silphium proposal was offensive to her, certainly, but it didn’t seem that the base Reformists’ tentative support of Crouch was based primarily on that. They really did seem to dislike Tom personally, just as he thought. The Renaissance Plan was a secondary matter, and if the wizards she had just met were representative of the common hardline Reformist on the street, their opposition was based on the idea that wizards shouldn’t “out-breed Muggles”—whatever that meant—rather than respect for witches’ bodily autonomy.

Maybe the answer was to continue trying to work on Tom, Hermione thought. Maybe she shouldn’t do what she was planning to do.

She passed by a stand of _Daily Prophet_ copies. The lead headline blared at her in large print, catching her eye: “Headmaster Dumbledore: ‘A Pox on All Your Houses!’”

Well, that was too interesting to pass up. She fished in her pocket for coins and bought a copy of the newspaper, which she instantly started to read.

As she had suspected, Dumbledore had not actually said anything of the sort, though he might as well have. He had written a long, full-page editorial, and this was apparently a slow news day, since this made the top headline.

 

_Wizarding politics have lately taken a turn for the worse. The Minister for Magic himself issues personal barbs at members of the Wizengamot in a public debate forum, inexplicably taking a swipe at Septimus Weasley for the size of his family—while advocating a controversial new policy for large families—but he is far from the worst offender of late, and it is fair to suggest that this comment may have been a defensive response._

_As Headmaster of Hogwarts, I have noticed a disturbing trend even among some of our students. The Minister is attacked for his blood status, and a vulgar slur unfit for print is used against his wife in private. Deputy Headmaster Horace Slughorn and I attempt to quell this sort of uncouth talk, but children follow the example of their elders, most particularly those in their families. The Minister’s own political faction responds to these crude attacks with the equally offensive attack of “blood-traitor” levelled against any who oppose their plans, appropriating the traditionally blood-purist term for their own “inclusively” wizard-nationalistic use. Frankly, the phrase shouldn’t be used at all. This is not the standard by which we should conduct our political discourse._

_Meanwhile, those who purport to stand for tolerance and openness to all human beings are in the midst of a purge of their own ranks. Any who attempt to work with the Minister are shunned and shamed. There are whispers of conspiracy theories concerning Gellert Grindelwald and Wizarding Supremacism. One may certainly disagree with the Minister’s agenda, but it is important to differentiate between his plans, which manifestly respect Wizarding Secrecy, and the calls for open wizard rule of Muggles around the globe that Grindelwald advocated. Overheated, exaggerated rhetoric benefits no one._

_The Minister’s “Renaissance Plan” is troubling, because it applies force instead of persuasion. But this is a point I have seen few others making in their urge to toot their own horns and advance their own agendas…._

 

Hermione read the rest of the piece. Dumbledore was evidently disgusted with everyone. He applauded the existence of a third legitimate political option, but he stated that the initial promise was fading as the political system accepted it and it lost its novelty—and as the Minister “overreached,” giving his opponents an opening to launch their ugliest attacks.

 _Something has to change,_ she thought. The misgivings that she had developed in the Reformist pub evaporated. Something needed to give, and it needed to start with Tom. He was the Minister. He would need to set the example of consideration and backing down. The three factions' hotheads that were respectively attacking his and her ancestry, calling people blood-traitors (Hermione recalled hearing that in the audience when Tom announced his new law concerning magic-haters), or doing what she had just heard in the pub—and what Dumbledore evidently had heard too—would not be capable of taking the lead in moderation and calmness. They were partisans, after all. Tom had to be the statesman. But he had to be given a _reason_ to be a statesman first.

 _I don’t want him actually removed,_ she thought. _I won’t let that happen._ She did not want to do that to him, and besides, Tom would not take defeat lying down. Something would happen to Crouch, and Tom _would_ regain power. And when he did, he would probably do everything he could to make sure he wouldn’t lose it again. He needed to be frightened into taking his agenda down a notch, not angered into taking vicious revenge.

 _The radical Reformists are the ones who aren’t sure about Crouch,_ she mused.

Hermione felt her appearance shifting back. She opened the _Daily Prophet_ wide and hid her face behind the newspaper as it transformed back to her own. Then she rose from the bench and headed to Gringotts.

She left with a new key to a new vault, an incorporation certificate for the newly formed “Principles Committee”, and the assurance of the goblins that the identity of the new vault’s owner would remain a secret from everyone—as would the transfer of three thousand Galleons from Advance Organization’s vault to the new vault.

Wizengamot votes wouldn’t be cheap, after all.

This would be outrageously illegal in the Muggle world, but for once in her life, Hermione found herself thankful for the entrenched corruption of the wizarding world.

* * *

Hermione felt a bit sorry for the Muggle woman whose hair she used for Polyjuice Potion, the same one as before. This woman lived on the same street that Tom and Hermione’s family did, but nobody in the wizarding world would recognize her as their neighbor. She looked quite different from Hermione, with short-cropped blonde hair and an angular, classical face.

Before she started on her _list—_ the people on the Wizengamot who might be amenable to being bribed—she wanted to try something else. The Black family had been curiously silent in the midst of this. She wondered why. Using the name Morgana Rich— _why not use the first name of the most famous witch in English history?_ she reasoned—she set up a private meeting with Orion Black.

“I was surprised to receive your owl,” Orion said in a nervous tone, sipping his drink lightly, his eyes trained on Hermione’s disguised face.

She hoped he wasn’t a Legilimens like his father. Avoiding his direct gaze, she answered in natural tones. “Have you not seen our advertisement in the _Daily Prophet_?” she asked. Since starting her “committee,” she had placed a political advertisement in the newspaper, not naming Tom by name, but calling for “a return to the principles of freedom and personal initiative.”

“I have,” he said, “but… I have to ask what you hope for with this meeting.”

That was inauspicious. Hermione supposed it was understandable for him to distrust her; no one in the wizarding world would recognize her supposed name, and a Black would know that she was not a pureblood, but it still was not a good start.

She decided that blunt honesty was best. “I thought I might propose… brokering a deal to give you a seat on the Wizengamot,” she said. She lowered her voice. “I understand that the last one a few years ago did not go your way. I have reason to think there are several members of the body that might be persuaded to vote for you if you threw your support to Caspar Crouch for Minister.”

Orion’s face paled. “Madam Rich, you’re speaking very openly about this, which I have to admire—you were a Gryffindor, I’d bet—and I do know what you’re talking about. Malf—that is, I have contacts. But I have no intention of getting involved in that business.”

“Are you sure?” she pressed. “You surely have a reason to oppose Riddle.”

Orion sipped his drink and scowled. “That’s exactly why I’m not going to get involved—well, it’s part of the reason. Frankly, the Riddles have a grudge against my family—”

Hermione wanted to protest that for herself, but she knew she could not.

“—and I don’t want to be a target of their retaliation again. I understand why they would have a problem with my father, but _I_ didn’t do any of it. I was a fourth year in school when all that shite was going on—pardon my language,” he added quickly.

“Why do you think there would be retaliation against you?” she asked. “Crouch would be the leader.”

“Crouch isn’t leading a damned thing. This alliance with the Reformist radicals is as fragile as an Erumpent horn, and it’ll blow up in the same manner,” Orion said. “I know all about what’s going on, Madam Rich, and it is not going to last. When—and it will be _when_ —it falls apart, Riddle is going to be looking for a scapegoat. They hate my family, and if I’m involved _at all,_ I will be their designated goat.”

“But why do you think that?” she pressed. “The alliance falling apart, I mean.”

Orion took a sip and raised an eyebrow at her. “You were definitely a Gryffindor.”

Hermione managed a chuckle. “Yes, I was,” she said. It wasn’t even a lie. “But what do you mean?”

“I must ask you not to repeat this to anyone.”

“You have my word.”

He hesitated. “It’s because many of the purebloods are opposing this Renaissance thing simply because it’s Riddle’s proposal,” he said bluntly. “Some of them, like Malfoy—and I mean no disrespect to him; he is my friend—some of them do have a tradition of small families. But others just hate Riddle. My family has suffered enough setbacks, and I won’t have them hurt more over a policy that I don’t even disagree with.”

Hermione was taken aback; she had _not_ expected that. “I’m sorry?”

“I don’t disagree with the plan,” Orion repeated. “I realize you do, and I suppose I can understand where you are coming from as a witch, but… according to my views, and the way I was raised, the more pureblood children, the better. It’s the way my family has always conducted itself. The ones who create trouble can go their own way, and the family will be left with other choices for the heir. The families like the Malfoys may think their way is better for securing the line, but I don’t believe it is.”

Hermione fell back in her seat and thought about it quickly. Yes, she realized, the Black family _had_ produced multiple children in most generations. Arcturus had two children, Pollux had had three, Cygnus had already had three daughters….

“I have to look out for my family first,” Orion repeated, “and I don’t want to antagonize the Riddles against my family any further, especially not over an issue for which I’m actually on their side. I’m sorry I can’t be of further help to you.” He finished his drink, paid for it, and departed.

* * *

That evening, Hermione sat at her desk with her list of Reformists on the Wizengamot before her. She studied the names, trying to determine whom to approach first now that Black had been a surprising dud.

“There you are,” Tom’s voice sounded as he entered their bedroom.

Hermione jumped in her seat and quickly banished the papers to her locked drawer. _He_ had a private study in the house, she thought. She should have claimed a room for herself. Well, there was still that spare bedroom on the top floor, where the children slept….

“I’m here,” she said, turning around and managing a smile.

He had a decidedly hunted look on his face. A tension that she had not seen in quite a while filled his eyes, anxiety over what was happening behind the scenes on the Wizengamot. She felt a pang of guilt.

 _He needs to feel vulnerable occasionally,_ she reminded herself.

He strode across the room and stopped behind her chair. Her eyes fluttered closed as he rubbed her shoulders. “You shouldn’t work this late,” he murmured.

“I suppose not,” she agreed. She breathed deeply, focusing only on his touch, then turned around and opened her eyes.

The tension was gone, and he was gazing her with a hungry look in his dark eyes.

Hermione’s heart thudded. That look—that look could still do to her what it did in seventh year. And he knew it.

In a few minutes, they were falling onto the mattress half-dressed, the remaining items of clothing rapidly coming off as they grabbed at each other. In a few more, they were locked together, sweating and frantic.

Later, after they had collapsed into each other’s embrace, after their breathing had slowed to a normal rate, Hermione realized that her fingers were still threaded into his silky black hair, keeping his head nestled into the space between her shoulder and her head. He seemed so sweet right now, so devoted and _hers…._

 _What am I doing?_ she thought.

She rapidly pushed the thought from her mind.


	14. Wizarding Renaissance, Part III:  Muck and Mire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione is working behind the scenes to oppose Tom’s family policy. Then the politics of it turn very ugly—and very personal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning** : Anyone who has been troubled by the “imposed childbearing” theme should be aware that this chapter may be particularly distressing.

The spindly, pasty-faced man plastered a sickly smile on his face as he handed a purse of gold to the well-dressed older wizard sitting across from him.

The older wizard weighed the bag casually, smiling. “I knew Crouch was very well-to-do,” he remarked, “but this is impressive.”

“We are not affiliated with Mr. Crouch officially,” the young man said in neutral tones.

“I understand.” The older wizard gave him a knowing look. “I’ve certainly had my concerns about Crouch, I won’t lie—awfully close to the Malfoys, he is—but it’s clear that he does _want_ the votes of us true Reformists, which is more than can be said for Riddle. Riddle only wants to tell other people why he’s right and they are wrong—to make other people think like him. Crouch is at least interested in courting us.”

The young man’s face almost seemed to ripple for a second. He frowned and quickly shuffled in his briefcase for a metal flask. He raised it and quaffed a sip, wincing slightly as the liquid went down his throat.

“What’s that?” the older man inquired.

The younger one put it back in his briefcase. “It’s….” He looked faintly embarrassed. “It’s a medical potion of a personal nature,” he said in a low voice.

“Ah. I see.” The older wizard seemed disinclined to pursue that subject further. He stood up in tandem with his companion, and they shook hands. “Well, it was pleasant dealing with you, Mr. Pearson.”

“Likewise.”

As the older wizard turned his back, the younger one furtively brought out his wand and cast a silent spell at his retreating figure. Now the departing man would not clearly remember the name or face of the person who had given him money.

* * *

Hermione examined her list of Wizengamot names that night, crossing off another one. Assuming all of the people that she had bribed actually voted for the challenge, Tom was now ten votes away from being removed from office.

 _How close is too close?_ she mused. Politics had never been her strongest suit. Would Crouch not make an official challenge at all unless he was completely certain that he had the votes already locked down? Or would he challenge Tom if the trend alone appeared to be in his favor? There might be wavering members of the Wizengamot who would hop on the Crouch bandwagon during the final vote simply because it appeared that momentum was on Crouch’s side. If that were the case, then Hermione realized it would potentially be difficult to judge “how close was too close.”

The feeling of power was heady to Hermione. _I can actually control his fate,_ she thought. It was thrilling, in a way, but at the same time, rather frightening.

 _This is really completely despicable,_ she realized. _The Wizengamot can actually be bought outright like this—I mean, assuming that these people don’t simply take the money and vote as they please, or abstain from voting. And these are the people who pretend to hold the moral high ground! I guess it’s only when Tom is their opponent. They know Crouch is not one of them. But if a “group” comes to “court” them, they like that because it flatters them when Tom won’t. It’s disgusting. This experience is certainly showing me who I should not respect on the Wizengamot._

The Principles Committee did not have a public persona now. After the initial political advertisement in the _Daily Prophet,_ Hermione had kept her dealings private. She had made sure not to use the same Muggle for her Polyjuice double more than once. Even if none of the Wizengamot were supposed to remember the names clearly, it was better not to rely entirely on a very subtle, very selective Memory Charm for secrecy. Best not to risk them asking each other too many questions about who, exactly, “Morgana Rich” or “Peregrinus Pearson” or any of the other ostensible representatives of the mysterious pro-Crouch dark money group were—especially since she intended to dissolve it after Crouch’s challenge narrowly failed.

* * *

Tom studied the letter before him with a critical eye. Rosier’s “espionage” on the Wizengamot had gone as well as could be expected. The fellow had, somehow or other, learned a degree of subtlety over the years. It was more than Tom would have expected of him when he was just a follower seeking out the strongest alpha to cower behind.

The old pureblood families, a majority of whom were Isolationist to some degree, seemed to have a burgeoning level of confidence in Caspar Crouch’s bid—or Abraxas Malfoy’s shadow bid, as the pureblood patriarchs and matriarchs on the court thought (correctly, in Tom’s opinion). What was interesting—and profoundly unsettling—was that a growing number of radical Reformists were lining up behind Crouch.

The most extreme Isolationists wouldn’t talk to Rosier, disparaging him as “Riddle’s pet pureblood,” but others—those more inclined to cross over and support Tom’s initiatives sometimes—would talk to him. They also talked to those most recalcitrant members of their own families, and Rosier had learned over the years how to wheedle sensitive information out of them without their awareness of it.

The radical Reformists who were apparently gravitating to Crouch were being influenced—bought off, Tom suspected—by a mysterious group, or firm, calling itself the Principles Committee. None of Rosier’s contacts knew who was behind it, though they all suspected it was a Malfoy venture, hiding its origins so as to not be distasteful to the Reformists. It would be quite easy to set up a little political organization like this. Whatever it was, it had placed an advertisement in the _Daily Prophet_ and then had gone into the proverbial smoke-filled rooms to do its work. Whoever was behind it certainly knew that politics was about much more than slogans and catchphrases.

Malfoy had reasons for his opposition, Tom admitted—though they were obviously stupid and wrong reasons. He had a very large fortune, which he wanted very much to pass on to a single son instead of having to divide it or cut off any of his progeny. He also didn’t like Tom himself. _Two-faced shapeshifter,_ Tom thought angrily. In 1945, after that ugly business with the Black family, Malfoy had been one of the patriarchs to back away from it and _claim_ to support Tom’s career in the Ministry. That certainly hadn’t lasted long once it became plain that Tom was not going to let Malfoy take him under his wing, and that he was determined to become Minister for Magic. _It just goes to show, nobody can ever trust a Malfoy,_ he thought in irritation. _Arcturus Black couldn’t, and I couldn’t either. They care about their own interests and that is all._

Malfoy was definitely backing Crouch as a puppet, and it was quite possible that this shady new group was also a Malfoy project. Tom was determined to find out—and before it purchased the rest of the undecided Wizengamot members.

* * *

A ding sounded through the air. “Urgent message from Minister Tom Riddle,” the mirror above Hermione’s office fireplace flashed in dark green letters. Hermione practically jumped from her desk.

Her researchers, with her eager personal involvement, had invented a special paper that could be sent through the Floo network instantly and without harm from the flames. The Floo Network Authority in the Ministry was working to expand Floo access to nontraditional outlets for homes that did not have fireplaces, so that they could use this system to communicate more quickly and securely. This promised to make owl post obsolete, which in Hermione’s opinion was good news. Birds flying around with parcels were an enormous risk to wizarding security. There had already been innovations to the new technology, including whitelisting and blacklisting of senders, and charms to announce the sender.

She collected herself, flicked her wand, and summoned the letter to her desk, opening it at once. She let out a breath as she read it.

 

_Hermione, you need to read this week’s Quibbler. I know, the Quibbler—but you really need to read this one. I’m calling an emergency meeting of the usual crowd at lunchtime, and if you can make it, I’d like you to come._

 

Hermione’s heart started to pound again. It didn’t _sound_ as if the magazine had uncovered her ownership of the Principles Committee—Tom would surely be a lot more aggressive than this, and he would not want to have it out with her in front of all his cronies, she hoped—but she did wish he had been a bit more specific about what was in the _Quibbler._

She summoned her office assistant, Edith, to bring her a copy of the _Quibbler._ When she unrolled the magazine, Hermione instantly realized why Tom had called the meeting.

 

_IS MINISTER RIDDLE A DARK WIZARD?_

 

“Erm, yes,” Hermione muttered cynically to herself. Fortunately she was alone in the office now. She proceeded to read the article, which was printed opposite a full-page, color, highly unflattering photograph of Tom. The photo depicted him in bright light, which made his face look angular and almost vampiric.

 

_He appears shiny, squeaky clean, but does Minister Tom Riddle have Dark skeletons in his closet? The Quibbler has the exclusive scoop! Anonymous sources who attended school with Riddle inform us that as a prefect and Head Boy, Riddle used dangerous Dark curses to discipline other students for typical Hogwarts pranks and misbehavior._

_“He never did it before other students, of course,” says one former schoolmate of Riddle who chose to remain anonymous for his own protection. “But if he had someone alone, he would use all sorts of Dark Magic once he had that badge on his chest.”_

_“He even used the Cruciatus on a friend of mine when he was in fifth year,” says another former student._

_Of course, the use of the Cruciatus Curse on a person is unlawful, and when proven, merits a life sentence in Azkaban. The student who alleges that Riddle disciplined another student with this Unforgivable Curse says that he cannot provide eyewitness proof of it, just the assertion of his friend, which is rather fortunate for the embattled Minister._

_Curiously, it appears that the most frequent victims of Riddle’s Dark Magic in school were fellow Slytherins in his year and the two years below him. All of the anonymous sources who came to the Quibbler to speak were of that cohort in school._

_The Quibbler also has obtained photographic evidence of Riddle’s involvement in the Dark Arts, which is printed on the following page. Observe the gaunt, angular appearance of his face in this photograph, and the gleam of scarlet in his pupils. We consulted with a Dark Arts expert, who informs us that—_

_“Dark Magic takes a toll on the body, producing physical markers that are mostly small and virtually unnoticeable in normal conditions, but this photograph does depict examples of these kinds of physical effects.”_

_Prior to the accounts of Riddle’s former classmates, the Quibbler held that Minister Riddle may be a vampire. We hold to that claim as a possibility, but we must also consider the possibility that Riddle is a Dark wizard. If this is the case, it opens many questions about the young Minister’s meteoric rise through the Ministry—as well as the precise means that he used to defeat Gellert Grindelwald in 1945._

 

Hermione felt queasy suddenly. This—this really was not good. Some of the old crowd from Slytherin—or their family members—who had not allied with Tom were obviously trying to discredit him by whatever means they could. She rather hoped that there was nobody out there who did have an intact memory of Tom using an Unforgivable Curse. She also _really_ hoped that nobody in the wizarding world knew enough about Horcruxes to figure out why Tom’s pupils occasionally flashed red. The appearance of his facial structure in the picture was due to the bad light, but the eye detail was not. Her heart skipped a beat at the thought of Albus Dumbledore. Even by the forties, he was “fierce” on the subject, according to Slughorn, and that was before he had any suspicions of Tom in the other timeline. But perhaps if he had not been given a reason to delve further into the topic… Hermione had not read anything in _Secrets of the Darkest Art_ about physical markers, but there might be other sources….

Tom would have a plan, she realized. By the time of the meeting—two hours from now—he would have decided what to do.

* * *

Tom’s forehead was creased in worry, and he seemed more inclined to grip his glass than drink from it.

One of Tom’s associates that he had acquired at work spoke up. “Minister, just between all of us in this room… _is_ there any truth in this article?”

Tom glowered. “Did I ever use Dark curses as a prefect? Yes. I did,” he spat.

Vincent Rosier looked at the table, unable to meet Tom’s eyes. Hermione was unsurprised at Tom’s admission. It wouldn’t do to categorically deny the entire report, and he knew that. There were probably too many people who had seen him doing _that_ much, and they might well have memories of it.

“I did _not,_ however, use Unforgivable Curses to discipline anyone,” he lied through clenched teeth, staring across the table. “We are going to deny that.”

 _He must be very confident that nobody has a memory of it,_ Hermione thought. _Roland Lestrange definitely doesn’t, but there is still Nott, and the younger Blacks… but no, Orion said they weren’t getting involved in this, and he is the titular head of the family now that his father has been disgraced, so Cygnus and the others would follow his lead. Alphard still just wants to play Quidditch and Tom never had a problem with him anyway. Orion might have lied, but he didn’t know who I was then, so he’d have had no reason to lie to me._

“Obviously, that bad photograph means nothing, and it’s complete rubbish that there are ‘physical markers’ of using Dark magic,” Tom scoffed. “The Lovegoods still think I _might_ be a vampire—they won’t rule it out—and I think that says all that needs to be said.”

“So what are we going to do?” Hermione spoke up, giving Tom a meaningful and private look. “Acknowledge the _Quibbler_ ourselves, or wait for someone to ask?”

He considered. “I’m going to wait to be asked. Treat it with contempt. If I make a statement without being asked, that would give it credibility in people’s minds.” He stared out at the rest of the table. “And we’re going to retaliate,” he said bluntly. “Vincent—I want you and Patrick to look into the Crouch rumor and find whatever you can.”

“The Crouch rumor?” someone murmured across the table.

Hermione looked down. She knew what Tom was talking about. He had mentioned it the night before. It was ugly, and she did not like one bit that Tom was apparently going to pursue this. He was also convinced that Abraxas Malfoy was behind the Principles Committee. It made her very nervous about continuing with her own efforts. She was giving him a scare, all right, but this was getting nasty—and out of hand.

“There is a rumor that Crouch impregnated a pureblood girl as a seventh year, broke up with her because he didn’t want to marry her, and she had to take silphium potion to—get rid of it,” he explained. There was a hunger in his eyes. “I rather suspect it’s true, and it would be devastating to his bid.” He sat back smugly. “There is also a story about Malfoy himself that we should look into, but I’m less certain of that one. Allegedly, he had an affair with a Muggle woman after he was married. Not Imperius rape, but an actual affair. I’m not sure I believe it, but I suppose someone should investigate that too if there’s time.”

 _This is getting very, very ugly,_ Hermione thought as everyone left. _This shadow campaign is really not having the effect that I wanted it to—either on Tom himself or on the legislation._

Lost in her own thoughts, she hovered behind as Tom took Vincent Rosier aside when everyone else had departed.

“Look up Nott, Avery, and the rest of the cohort,” he hissed. “If they remember anything ‘sensitive,’ make sure that they _don’t_ after you leave.”

Rosier nodded nervously and left.

* * *

“Minister!” reporters called to Tom as he exited his office and entered the Atrium of the Ministry. He glowered at the cluster of journalists with haughty disdain.

Barnabas Cuffe shoved his way to the front of the group and shouted above the rest. “Minister Riddle! This article in the _Quibbler—”_

Tom raised an eyebrow and smirked at the pack of quill- and camera-bearing media personalities. “Which part of it, Cuffe? I promise you I’m not a vampire, if that’s your concern.”

There were light chuckles from the Ministry employees who overheard the exchange, but Cuffe was persistent. “These claims that you used Dark curses on students as a prefect,” he clarified.

“I, like most students at Hogwarts, did practice a variety of curses, and may have done so inappropriately at times as a schoolboy, but I _never_ used the Unforgivables,” Tom declared.

“What about the picture?”

Tom scoffed derisively. “My appearance in that photo is a marker of bad lighting, not Dark magic usage. It’s typical of a publication that relies on poor photographs to claim that imaginary creatures exist and various people are secretly some other species.”

“That’s very true, Minister, that the lighting is quite poor, and I take your point about the _Quibbler_ as well, but your eyes _do_ gleam in that photo when it moves, and—”

“It’s what flash photography does to people’s eyes sometimes,” Tom said airily. “You can see for yourself right now, in person, what I look like. This is ridiculous. And you’ll notice that Lovegood’s ‘Dark Arts expert’ doesn’t have a name. If he had a legitimate affiliation and real credentials, Lovegood would have boasted of it. This is a desperate, pathetic attempt by my opponents to attack me.” Tom shoved his way through the group of reporters and stormed to the closest Apparition point.

* * *

_A few days later._

Hermione let her hair down and fluffed it with her fingers. She rinsed and spat into the sink, washing out the horrid taste of vomit. This was the second morning in a row that this had happened.

 _Could it be?_ Hermione wondered. _I’ve been taking the potion—while I still can—but perhaps it could go bad over time.  We've been intimate a lot these days, too._ Despite her disagreement with his policy, she still wanted him as much as ever—possibly even more. It made her feel especially guilty that she was paying people to support his unofficial challenger, even if it was for his own good.

There was only one way to know. She pointed her wand at her belly and cast a diagnostic spell. The wand tip glowed green—not the harsh, lethal green of the Killing Curse, but a warm, healthy, _fertile_ leaf green.

Hermione sank onto her knees again and closed her eyes. This wasn’t what she had intended. She had meant to have two children. This one wasn’t planned.

She rubbed her eyes as another idea flitted at the back of her subconscious. _Could he have tampered with the potion and rendered it ineffective?_

She instantly shoved that thought out of her mind. It was not a productive line of speculation to pursue. If he had, then she would resent having the confirmation—assuming he didn’t just lie. If she asked him and he actually hadn’t, _he_ would resent her suspicion. No good could come of it. She was pregnant again, and they would have to accept and deal with it. She had not planned for this baby, but it wasn’t as if she didn’t _want_ it now that she knew it was there. Those were two different concepts. He would be happy when he learned, she was sure—and after all, they did have room in the house. There was that spare room on the top floor, where Madeline and Virgil slept, that they had meant to use as an arboretum, but now it was the perfect room for this child.

 _I really should back away from the corrupt politics,_ she thought as she slumped against the bathroom wall. Now _that_ was indeed an unhappy thought to pursue. Her objection to the Wizarding Renaissance Plan had never been _personal,_ and it still wasn’t. It was principled. She might be all right with her family continuing to grow, even if she hadn’t planned it, but this was never about her any more than her very first political cause, house-elf enslavement, had been about her. The real problem was that she did not see any changes in Tom’s attitude. No softening. He had a hunted, harried look these days, and he was obviously nervous that Crouch’s campaign might actually succeed, but this fear was only making him double down on his plans, it seemed. It was depressing. _What_ could be done to make him learn to compromise?

“Hermione?” he called through the bathroom door. “Are you all right?”

She opened her eyes. Might as well tell him now. She stood up, pulled down the hemline of her negligee, and steeled herself as she opened the door.

She forced a weak smile on her face as she met his eyes. He looked legitimately concerned for her, which made her heart thump. “I’m quite all right,” she said. “I was just sick—”

“This is the second day.”

“Yes, it is, and so I had a thought—well, to get to the point, I’m expecting again.” Her voice suddenly wobbled. “We’re going to have a third child. I’m not sure _how,_ because I have been taking the potion, but we _have_ been intimate a lot lately and I suppose any potion has an expiration date—”

Without a word, he enveloped her in his arms. “That’s the best news we’ve had in weeks,” he murmured against the shell of her ear. The fingers of one hand tangled in her hair, and his other hand caressed her upper back.

 _He would be so angry to learn what I’ve been doing,_ Hermione thought as he held her. _I don’t know what to do now. Isn’t our family more important than politics?_

* * *

Tom did not announce the pregnancy at once, preferring instead to wait for the traditional three-month mark, as they had done when Hermione was expecting Madeline and Virgil. No one except the two of them knew. The spells that could detect a child’s gender would not work quite yet, so they could not even start to decorate the extra room. It was a piece of news that they knew but could not act upon in any concrete way yet.

The only difference that it made in Hermione’s day-to-day activities, she thought wryly, was to prevent her from having a drink to calm herself.

She gazed at her now well-worn list of undecided radical Reformists on the Wizengamot. Ten votes, if no one had changed their mind. There were two names she had starred, witches in the “radical” cohort who were nonetheless the closest of that set to being moderates. They had supported Tom before, and if he lost _them,_ he might get the jolt of real fear that he needed.

 _Sometimes it takes that,_ she thought. _Sometimes a person can be afraid but mask that mild fear with bravado and stubbornness—until a tipping point, and_ then _the person will make a compromise._

_I have enough money left in the Principles Committee vault to do this. Two more names, two more bribes, and that will be all. If it doesn’t work, then so be it; I am through with this. This campaign is vile and I am not going to contribute any further to it._

She folded up the list and banished it to her locked desk drawer.

* * *

“Mr. Crouch! Mr. Malfoy!” called Barnabas Cuffe.

The two well-dressed wizards stopped in the Ministry Atrium and regarded Cuffe with the same angry sneer that Tom had done when Cuffe confronted him with the _Quibbler_ accusations.

“Do you have a statement to make concerning these allegations about your personal lives?” Cuffe asked breathlessly.

Malfoy’s hand twitched on his heirloom snake-headed wand holder as if he wanted to curse Cuffe. Crouch scowled.

“My statement,” Malfoy sneered, “is that it is a complete and utter _lie,_ and this Muggle woman was very likely paid to make her claims to _Witch Weekly.”_

“Mr. Malfoy,” Cuffe persisted, “she claimed that you have a magical tattoo on—”

 _“The story is false,”_ Malfoy said through clenched teeth, his face bright pink.

“I also deny the rumor,” Crouch said, “and furthermore, Cuffe, let us be honest about where these rumors are originating. The Minister is having his people make scandalous but false assertions about us to divert attention from his own hypocrisy. He wants couples to have three children, but how many does _he_ have?”

There were audible gasps throughout the Atrium. At that point, Tom himself strode out of the elevator. He met Crouch’s eyes, gave him a death glare, and walked over to the small circle.

“In fact, _Caspar,_ we are now expecting our third child. I _was_ going to wait to make this announcement, since Hermione is only about a month along, but if you are going to call me names, I’m afraid I’m forced to break with tradition.” He gazed at him. “And I must ask you to keep your personal scandals—and Malfoy’s—out of the Ministry and not bring me into it… or else admit what you’re doing. If you want to challenge me, admit that’s what you’re doing and explain to the wizarding community _why._ Your ‘campaign’ has no clear rationale for even existing.”

With that, he walked to an Apparition point and disappeared with a pop.

* * *

Hermione had bouquets of congratulatory flowers on her desk, but this was not the way she would have preferred for her pregnancy to be announced. After Tom had mic-dropped the news in the Atrium, they had scheduled a formal, proper announcement, replete with smiles and subtle displays of affection. It wasn’t even that these displays were fake; Tom really was happy about the news, but with any event like this, there was an undertone of masquerade with him.

She rather suspected that the rumors about Crouch and Malfoy were both true now. She had personally met the Muggle woman purported to be Malfoy’s former mistress, who did not seem to be lying. No one had been able to dig up the witch who had supposedly been Crouch’s old flame, but the man himself got flustered and tended to protest too much whenever the subject was raised with him.

 _The allegations in the Quibbler about Tom are all true as well,_ she thought. _He did use Dark curses, and not just in his zeal as a schoolboy eager to try out new magic. He also used Unforgivables. And the flash of his eyes is most definitely a sign of Dark magic. Thank goodness nobody knows exactly what kind._

* * *

The pretty red-haired lady smiled and handed over two purses of gold to the sharp-faced witches across from her at the table.

“I rather hate voting to remove Riddle,” one of them commented, “but if you’re certain that it’s the only way to roll back this restriction on witches….”

Hermione had been very pleased, at last, to find someone who disagreed with the Renaissance Plan for the same reason she did, and wanted to discuss the issue itself rather than engaging in vile personal attacks.

“I’m sure, unfortunately,” she simpered in her Polyjuiced form.

“Well,” the other witch said, “I agree that it’s a shame—and I don’t entirely trust Caspar Crouch, you must understand.” The two Wizengamot witches exchanged looks. “We’ll vote for him—conditionally—but if something arises that changes our minds, we’ll return these… gifts.”

* * *

Hermione was not sure if her nausea was another bout of morning sickness, or if the pair of editorials in the _Daily Prophet_ had set this off. Tom’s exhortation to Crouch to justify his candidacy with policy criticisms had certainly borne fruit.

 

 _There are several reasons to be alarmed by the Minister’s policy proposal,_ Abraxas Malfoy wrote _._

_For one, Minister Riddle uses Muggle science to make his case. Can we assume that science concocted by Muggles is even correct? I think not. The Minister then has the presumption to tell our pureblood families that they are not having enough children, but the great families have sustained their names for centuries, so who is he to tell them otherwise? Meanwhile, he is bringing in hordes of people with no magic and with Muggle values. One must wonder if his real motive is to forcibly mix the blood of our most ancient lineages with that of people who know nothing about their own great-grandparents. Of course, given his and his wife’s own muddied heritage, this is probably exactly what he wants to do. Are we all, in some future generation, to be made half-bloods? The Minister seems determined to remake the wizarding world in his own image._

 

“What bloody difference does it make if science comes from Muggle scholars?” Hermione snarled to herself. “That makes it questionable? Mathematical equations are what they are. You can’t argue ‘well, we’ve kept our name alive for centuries, so therefore we’re also replacing the population.’ It just doesn’t _follow.”_

And then, after the anti-intellectualism, there was the rest of Malfoy’s piece. _Muddied heritage? Because he knows “Mudblood” won’t be printed in the newspaper? Forcibly mixing blood? He seems to have confused what Tom wants to do with what his own allies of convenience want to do. Weasley was the one to propose punishing wizard-witch marriages!_

But Abraxas was a Malfoy, so this sort of rhetoric was to be expected from him. It was a bit surprising that he would show his hand so openly while he and his protégé were still trying to court people on the opposite side of politics, but Hermione supposed that nobody was in the dark about Malfoy’s opinions anyway.

What was a great deal more unsettling—and possibly behind the nausea Hermione felt—was Caspar Crouch’s own editorial. He had not formally declared a challenge to Tom, but this was still obviously throwing his hat in the ring.

 

_We should rejoice in the decline in the magical birth percentage among non-magicals, because assimilating Muggle-born outsiders—however necessary—has ever been a security risk for us. On that, at least, Minister Riddle and I agree, but that is the extent of our accord. My friend Mr. Malfoy reminds us that these Squibs that the Nationalists have brought in have the values of Muggles—because they are! By exploiting our culture’s respect for magical ancestry, the Minister and his faction create shades of gray where they do not exist: One either has magic or does not. He is concerned about population decline, so he brings in Squib families of Muggle-borns for their wizarding blood, and now he wants wizards and witches themselves to have larger families… but is a smaller population truly a problem? Minister Riddle asserts that a culture of single-child families leads to a death spiral as a people, but perhaps we will merely produce a smaller and therefore closer wizarding community, easier to govern and keep safe. Let us return to traditions that have worked instead of being subjects for the green young Minister’s social experiments._

 

 _He agrees with a lot more of Malfoy’s opinions than he ever let on,_ Hermione realized, reading between the lines. There was as much said against Tom’s Muggle-born family policy as there was against the Renaissance Plan… and Crouch, too, had profoundly ignorant and anti-intellectual views about the numerical population analysis.

_This person—the person I have been using Advance money to support, money that could have been spent on research—does not understand mathematics, or he thinks that because it’s a “Muggle” field of study, it doesn’t apply to wizards. He doesn’t acknowledge that Squibs are different from Muggles, he doesn’t really like involving people like me in the wizarding world either, and he thinks we’d be better off if we were smaller—and probably all interrelated, just like the pureblood families themselves are. Malfoy accused Tom of wanting to remake the wizarding world in his image, but Crouch definitely wants to do that. I don’t like Tom’s plan, but I cannot ally with anti-intellectual blood purity supporters, even as a feint._

Suddenly something else occurred to Hermione. _I’m not the only one who is going to conclude this,_ she thought in panic. _These wavering Reformists, the ones I had to bribe, are going to see what Crouch truly is and they’ll stop supporting him. The bid will collapse._

Hermione gripped her desk for support.

_Now what am I going to do?_

* * *

Tom crumpled the newspaper and tossed it into the fire in the Minister’s office. Crouch was either a dithering idiot, risking his Reformist support this way, or he had locked down enough votes on the Wizengamot to make his stand at last. Tom hoped it wasn’t the latter.

 _I’m going to find out once and for all who is behind that damned group,_ he thought, rising from the plush chair. He gripped his reliable yew wand and stalked out of the office.

When he entered Gringotts, the goblins were currently accepting purses of gold from a pair of prune-faced witches that Tom recognized from the Wizengamot. He stood aside and apart, waiting for their transaction to conclude, but he could not avoid hearing one of the women say, “We just can’t support Crouch, you know, and we promised the lady we’d give her money back if we changed our minds.”

 _So you’ll take bribes, but only if you already agree with the person you’re being paid to support. That’s somehow even worse than just being for sale,_ Tom thought with disdain. However, here were two people, at least, who would _not_ be backing Crouch after all. That was a good thing.

The witches hurried away, looking a little frightened when they noticed Tom, but he did not respond to them. When the counter was available, he strode to it and pasted a dark smile on his face.

“Minister Riddle,” the goblin clerk growled. “What can we do for you today?”

Tom tapped his fingertips on the counter. “I have private business with Gringotts today.”

He was shown into a side office with a door. The goblin at that desk, a vice president of the bank, regarded Tom with the disdain that many of his race showed humans.

“I intend to know who opened the vault that belongs to the ‘Principles Committee,’” Tom said without preamble.

The goblin put his spectacles on and sneered. “I can’t show you that record. We goblins of Gringotts protect the secrecy of our customers, even from you, Minister.”

Tom leaned forward. “I don’t think I made myself clear to you, Orgar. I _intend_ to know who opened that vault.” Before the goblin could react with his own innate magic, Tom withdrew his wand and pointed it at his head. _“Imperio.”_

Orgar’s face slackened. “Of course, Minister,” he said, ambling to a file cabinet. He pressed his palm against the drawer to unlock it, then found the record in question. “Here you are.”

Tom took the folder and began to read it.

His eyes widened and gleamed red for a moment. His stomach turned. His heart began to pound, and he felt a disconcerting mix of emotions flood his mind: shock, dismay—and anger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter of this storyline, and then I'll begin one about Cold War-induced problems. Not to spoil the final chapter, but I do not intend to fully disenfranchise Hermione.


	15. Wizarding Renaissance, Part IV:  The Most Important Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of Tom's discovery, they both struggle to come to terms with what happened.

Tom stared at the documents in disbelief.

_It has to be a forgery,_ he thought. _She wouldn’t do that. This is someone who pretended to be her._ That thought was instantly checked by cold reality. The goblins of Gringotts had anti-fraud measures in place, and in any case, why would an impostor pretend to be Hermione specifically? The bank was not _supposed_ to disclose any information about its accounts or the contents of vaults if the owners had privacy clauses in their contracts—as this did.

_She did this. She took money from her organization and used it to buy votes against me._ The disbelief in Tom transmuted into anger. _How dare she go behind my back like this, while pretending to be oh-so-sympathetic to my troubles!_

_I should have known something was up. It’s not like her to vocally object the way she did when I first brought up the plan and then turn almost silent for no apparent reason. The most she said against it after that was to suggest that I should “moderate” it. I should have known she was up to something._

He turned to the goblin, who was still blissfully Imperiused. “You will forget what I asked you in this meeting,” he murmured hypnotically. “You will think I came here to discuss investments.” He rose from the chair and stormed out of the side office, but not before stashing the incriminating file folder in his briefcase.

* * *

Letters streamed through the modern Floo system, and Hermione’s offices buzzed with late-breaking news as people came in from lunch: the hardline Reformists on the Wizengamot had been appalled by the blood-purity dog whistles in Crouch’s editorial and were reportedly in a closed-door meeting that very moment. Everyone believed that they were going to withdraw their support as a group. Since most employees of Advance supported Tom as Minister, there was much jubilation—and schadenfreude—at the news.

Hermione had taken herself away from the storm of gossip and the people returning from lunch. She had closed and locked her office door, convincing her staff that she was probably consulting with Tom and needed privacy for that reason, but in truth she was berating herself mentally. She had also developed a headache.

_I failed,_ she thought miserably. _I miscalculated and failed. I should have listened to Orion Black, of all people, in that very first meeting. He warned me that the alliance was fragile. I wish he’d just said that Crouch was a blood purist… but I can’t blame him for this. All the signs were there._

_I’ve wasted money—most of it very likely will not be returned—and even if the organization is rich, it was still a waste. At least I didn’t spend all of it. I’ll need to go to the bank and close the account at once. But what am I going to do now? It was really important to stop Tom from doing this—he has to be taught that there are lines he cannot cross without consequences—but how?_

_Maybe I shouldn’t have taken_ his _word at face value either,_ she thought. _He was so sure that everyone who opposed him did so for stupid, personal reasons, but that’s absolutely not true. Those two women didn’t, at least. I probably could have persuaded some of these people to use leverage against him—to say that they’d vote for Crouch unless he changed this natalist plan. Some of them didn’t care specifically about that, and it was obvious, but they would’ve thought that if he could be made to change his mind on one thing, perhaps they could apply that same pressure on other things they didn’t like. Never mind for them that there probably wouldn’t be enough opposition on anything else to make him budge. What would matter would be if they believed it on this one matter. That is the course I should have pursued,_ she concluded in despair.

Her headache had intensified. She took a brief sip of pain-relief potion and waited a minute for it to take effect. She had to be careful about potions now, because of the pregnancy. Even using Polyjuice to transform into a male could have been hazardous, and she was very glad that most of her Muggle doubles—and all of them in the three weeks prior to her discovery of the pregnancy—had been women.

_Did he tamper with the contraceptive potion?_ she wondered again. She had not wanted to pursue the thought after it first occurred to her. She hoped, in a way, that she wouldn’t find out and that eventually it would cease to trouble her, but she also suspected that the doubt would continue to gnaw at her. The idea that he would do that to her—probably, she thought grimly, to use her as a prop for his “happy three-child family” ideal, or else in anticipation of the “hypocrisy” attack—it infuriated her to think about. _But then, why should I have been an exception?_ she thought bitterly.

One thing was certain. It was time to close that vault. The gambit had failed. Hermione rose from her chair and steeled herself for the task.

* * *

By the end of the day, it was official: the radical wing of the Reformist faction had announced that it was withdrawing support from Caspar Crouch’s apparent challenge to the Minister. Since the challenge had no hope with only part of the Isolationist faction backing it, that was the end. Reporters had gathered outside Merlin and Arthur’s, where the meeting had taken place, waiting to hear from the politicians who had been closeted in one of the private rooms. The Wizengamot member who read the statement declared, in a wheezy voice, that—

_“This is not an endorsement of all of Minister Riddle’s policies, but a conclusion that Crouch’s ties to, and sympathy for, the blood-purity movement rendered him an unacceptable choice to lead the British wizarding world. We hope to work productively to encourage Minister Riddle to pursue an agenda that helps both wizards and our Muggle neighbors.”_

Hermione gathered up her belongings and headed to the room where her children and a few of her employees’ children played. They eagerly jumped up as their mother approached and clung to her. It brought a smile to her face despite all the tension and anxiety of the day. _At least I actually do have a happy family,_ she thought, heading with them to the Apparition point. _There is that._

She held their hands and Disapparated home, landing on the front doorstep. She opened the door and ushered them into the house. Tom was nowhere in sight, but perhaps he had not returned from work yet, she supposed.

That idea dissipated when the door to the family room opened. He emerged. A cold, insincere smile filled his face—a smile that sent chills down Hermione’s back.

“Welcome home,” he said, still bearing that icy smile. He gazed at Madeline and Virgil. “Would the two of you mind waiting in here for a bit?” He gestured at the family room. “There are snacks on the table for you. Your mother and I need to talk about something.”

Hermione noticed for the first time that he was clutching a leather folder of papers as if it were a weapon. Her heart froze in her chest. _He knows,_ she thought.

When they were settled in the room, he quietly closed the door and then turned to her, the smile gone. “We’ll do this upstairs.”

She tried to put on a front of calmness and curiosity. “What’s this all about?” she asked.

He didn’t answer until they reached the top of the staircase. “I think you know.”

They walked down the hallway and into the master bedroom. Tom closed the door and flicked his wand at it, casting Muffliato. He turned to her, all traces of even false levity gone from his face, and threw the folder on the bed.

“Open it,” he spat. “You must have a guess of what’s in it, but open it for yourself.”

Hermione edged toward the bed, her heart pounding. Gingerly she opened the folder. The documents from Gringotts stared her in the face.

“How did you get these?” she whispered.

“The bank can be compromised with a single curse. You, of all people, know that. Now what is the meaning of this?” He glared at her, breathing heavily. He seemed to be trying to keep his distance from her—whether because he found proximity to her intolerable at the moment, or because he was afraid of what might happen if they got too close to each other, she did not know.

Something snapped inside her. _I am not going to let this happen. He started this with his law and by refusing to listen to me. I’m not going to stand here quietly and let him berate me._

“I think the meaning of it is perfectly clear,” she spat. “You understand what those documents are. You know I had a problem with your law. I don’t think it’s that difficult to comprehend.”

The light in his pupils flashed red—and stayed that color. “How could you do this to me— _you?”_ he exploded. “How could you go behind my back—lie to me—pretend everything was normal, when all the while you were paying the Wizengamot to remove me from my seat!” He stormed about the bedroom, avoiding the space immediately around Hermione, before stopping and giving her another scarlet-tinged glare. “You really thought the law was so damned bad that I deserved to be _deposed_ over it?”

“No, I didn’t intend to let it get to that point.”

“Oh, didn’t you?” he scoffed. “The only thing that stopped it was when Crouch fired the proverbial curse at himself!”

“I had eight names remaining,” Hermione snarled, advancing slightly toward him, “but after it turned ugly, I decided that it had gone too far.”

“Well, I’m glad you got cold feet,” he said snidely, “because it tells me that you didn’t want to risk destroying our relationship.” He met her eyes, which were glaring back at his. “So why did you do it?”

“I wanted to show you that you don’t get to control everything just because you really want to! Sure, maybe you can keep your Wizengamot majority, but you, _even you,_ will have opposition to some things you want to do. And it just might include me sometimes!”

He glared. “I knew you opposed this. You made that clear from the first time I told you about it. That does not explain why you went in secret to bribe Wizengamot members to vote against me—to vote to remove me from office! Even if you got cold feet at the last, that was still your plan.”

“No, it wasn’t. I _never_ wanted to remove you from office.”

“You poured gold into a secret account and used it to bribe Wizengamot members to support Crouch’s bid. That was what you were trying to do.”

“Consider this, Tom. If I had really wanted you removed, I could have revealed one of your secrets. Any one of them, really; pick a number,” she snarled, watching his eyebrows narrow.

“Did you—were you the source for the _Quibbler_ article too?” Angry betrayal dripped from his words at this question.

“Absolutely not. Your own mistreatment of your former minions is responsible for that,” she snarled. “I wasn’t talking about a secret that would be a ticket to Azkaban—but there was still, oh, the vote on the Black family, or your intention to let Grindelwald alone if he behaves. I could have… but I didn’t. I didn’t want to remove you, and I was never going to let it get to that point.”

“Then _what did you want?”_

“I wanted to frighten you,” she said. “I wanted you to back away from this plan.”

“If there had been a vote, and I had won it, that would have been seen as a vote of _approval_ for my agenda.”

“I thought that maybe if you were nervous enough, you would back away _before_ a vote.”

Some of the rage in his eyes faded as he realized that she was telling the truth.

“I wanted to show you that sometimes you have to actually consider what _other_ people want, instead of explaining to them why _you_ ‘have to’ get what you want.”

He shook his head in amazement, most of the raw anger gone now. “So you gave them gold to vote against me in the hopes that I would change my mind and _nobody_ would actually get to vote. Is there anyone you _didn’t_ lie to? You kept this secret from me, you lied to the people you were bribing, and you took from your organization.”

“I have control over the organization, including its treasury, thanks to your advice on that subject.”

He smirked for a moment. “Well done, then. You know, Hermione, I have to admit to a certain degree of admiration for all of this, even though you were working against me.”

She scowled at him.

“But that doesn’t make it all right. If you want to do politics this way, I think that’s great, and I don’t care who else you lie to, but to _me—_ to work against _me—_ it’s wrong.”

Anger surged in her. “Oh, is that it? It’s ‘wrong’? Why is that?” She strode forward, closing the distance, and stabbed his chest with her index finger. “Is it because you’re the man and I’m not supposed to question you?”

“I didn’t—”

She cut him off and met his eyes with fury in her own. “Listen well, Tom. If _that’s_ what you think—if you think I’m supposed to smile quietly by you, whatever you do—you are very much mistaken. I have opinions of my own and I am _not_ going to suppress them for you.”

“I didn’t say that you should. I value your opinions. That doesn’t mean I always agree with them, but I want to hear them.”

“Then what do you mean by ‘it’s wrong’?”

He hesitated for a moment, and then words burst from his mouth. “We’re supposed to be together—always together! Even when we don’t agree. We’re not supposed to be working against each other. You’ve been angry with me, but never _against_ me… but now, you went behind my back and tried to….” He trailed off, looking deeply troubled. “Hermione, if we didn’t have any children, would you still stay here?”

_“With me”_ was the unsaid part. It wasn’t a challenge, and he didn’t seem to be manipulating her. He sounded genuinely unsure and surprisingly vulnerable, and he never used a façade of vulnerability to manipulate people anymore. In spite of herself, Hermione found it touching.

“I would,” she said.

The wild look in his eyes calmed a bit. “So all the nights recently—”

She flushed. “Were real. I wasn’t faking that. In fact, every time, I questioned afterward what I was doing. Every single time. I wouldn’t use intimacy to deceive you, Tom. I remember before our first time how you told me that I was the exception, the one person you would ever allow to do that. I’ve never regretted letting you be my one person, either. It’s special to me too, and I wouldn’t spit on that by using it to trick you.”

The storminess in his gaze abated.

“I don’t want to leave you, and I swear, I did not want you out of a job. I wouldn’t have let that happen. I realized I’d probably need to pull back when that _Quibbler_ article hit the stands, and I did it as soon as Crouch revealed where his sympathies truly lay. But you want to control _everything_ —that’s what this Renaissance Plan is about, controlling the wizarding world—and I just want you to stop it! This is too far, Tom!”

He sucked in his breath impatiently, the tender moment lost. “Hermione, you’re a rational, logical person. I have explained why it’s necessary to promote births—”

“But you’re not ‘promoting’ them; you’re forcing them!”

“No, I’m not. I’m not turning the Ministry into a matchmaker—the Reformists want to, but they’re idiots—but if people _do_ pair off, I want the wizarding world to get something out of it. We’re going to dwindle to nothing if the culture doesn’t change—”

“Tom, did you tamper with my potion?” She blurted the question out before she really intended to, but once it was out, she did not regret asking it.

He looked guilty for a moment, then defiance and smugness overspread his face.

“I knew it. You wanted to make sure that nobody could call you a hypocrite, since you hadn’t done anything but replace the two of us—”

He gripped her waist tightly. “Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that. Every child we have should be a _permanent_ addition. I don’t intend for any of us to be ‘replaced.’”

A snarl escaped Hermione’s mouth involuntarily. “I know damn well what you ‘intend,’ and I know you’re trying to prime the children to see it your way—”

His fingers dug into her waist. “The children? The children wouldn’t _exist_ if I hadn’t made the Horcrux!” he raged. “One of us would have _died_ in 1945! Whoever survived would have _nothing!_ No family! None of this! Is that what you’d prefer?”

That idea made her heart twist. “Of course I don’t want that!” she exclaimed. “It’s complicated—”

“No, it’s not! You agree that the ends can sometimes justify the means, and they obviously do for that, so stop—just stop.”

Hermione’s eyes fluttered shut. It was an uncomfortable admission, but he was right about her thoughts for that. But it wasn’t the real topic of their argument. “My point is, you tampered with the potion—and you know I’ll love this baby, but I’m sure you think that’s a justification for your means too. You controlled what happened to my body, just like the other women this law will force to become pregnant.”

“I’ve _told_ you, this is about _couples._ It’s about people who want to pair off and shag. They should take that decision seriously.”

“Is that what you thought when we were in seventh year?”

“Yes, I took it _extremely_ seriously—and so did you.”

“So you would’ve been all right with it if I’d become pregnant?”

Tom stared back hard. “Yes, I would have.”

“Bollocks,” she spat nastily.

“Oh no it isn’t. I would have married you as soon as we finished school—which, oh right, is what happened. I knew I wanted you.” He frowned. “Hermione, why do you want to enable people who trivialize things that should be important? I know _you_ aren’t like that. Is this how people _think_ in the time you grew up? That even if you yourself take it seriously, nobody really needs to, and so you’re probably a bit of a prude?”

Hermione glared. “This isn’t about me, and you are not going to make it about me. I _know_ you understand the concept of sex for pleasure or love. When we first started to, I brewed that potion, and you….” She trailed off, remembering. He had not tried to stop her from making it, but she recalled that he had not been enthusiastic about it. Maybe he hadn’t lied just now. He had been a virgin—not because he had been saving it, as she had been, but because he had regarded sexuality with contempt until he met her. Even afterward, he had regarded couples with contempt unless they had the same ideas about sex that he—or possibly she—did, and he probably thought that even now. It would explain a lot. “Even if you wanted it, you knew it would’ve been a bad idea,” she finally said, somewhat defeatedly.

He rolled his eyes. “I could add another exception for couples who are still in school, if you like. I think it undermines the Plan’s intent for there to be too many exceptions, but I suppose they do need to finish their studies.”

“You’re missing the point.”

“No,” he said sharply, “I am not missing your point. I simply _disagree_ with your point. I think it’s more important for there to be population growth in our world.”

“Then why allow women to get the potion if they’ve been raped?” Hermione shot back.

He stared at her. “Because contrary to what you think, I don’t want to ‘control women.’ If victims couldn’t get the potion, it _would_ allow men to impregnate women without the women having any say in it. That’s not what I want to happen. This is supposed to encourage _families.”_ His features twisted. “For God’s sake, I have a daughter—possibly two—and you. I know that witches can be just as powerful as wizards. I’m not an ignorant Muggle.”

_Everything comes back to that with him,_ she thought. Her anger was slowly settling, though sadness was replacing it. They really were not going to see eye to eye on this, she realized. He saw an existential threat to the wizarding world, and in his mind that justified his policy. He really did think it was the only way to save magic in the human race.

“There was once a time when witches and wizards cared more about building up and passing on their great heritage, their knowledge, their talents….”

“Hearth and home?” she said. “The little ones gathered by the fire in the stone cottage as their magical parents instruct them in ancient secrets? Tom, I thought you were more of a realist than that. We’re never going back to that.”

“I didn’t say that,” he said quietly. “That’s _your_ imagination. I also, as you know, like a bit more… grandeur… than that image suggests… like the school, or the Ministry. Or our own house.”

She met his eyes for as long as she could, but he could out-stare her easily.

“So many of us think like Muggles now,” he said. “So much talent wasted on inventing joke items, ‘miracle’ potions that never are, stupidly charmed gadgets, and ever-faster brooms, advertised in trashy magazines in a pathetic imitation of Muggle consumers. And none of it lasts. None of it matters. And I think it’s making us not take lots of other things seriously either. We’re more focused on that rubbish than our own future—our literal survival, and our survival as a distinct people who are different from Muggles.” He paused, taking a breath and thinking about how to word his statement. “We can’t shut out everything from Muggle society… I understand that… but some things, we _should_ try not to imitate, and their superficiality is the biggest one. It’s not just about population growth. It’s also a way of sending the message that some things _matter…_ that some things are not superficial; some things are important and are supposed to last. That kind of relationship… and wizarding culture.”

Hermione sank into the bed and put her head in her hands. Her thoughts were whirling, focused on two overarching ideas.

Tom was clearly always going to have an immense draw to the concepts of wizarding pride and wizarding culture. It was an immutable part of him, apparently. At least this time it didn’t take the form of bigotry against other wizards for their ancestry, but some manifestation of it was always going to be present. Perhaps he wasn’t enamored of the romanticized medieval wizarding home, but he did want to produce a twentieth-century wizarding world of high culture, magical advances, and strong family… in opposition to the developing consumerism of Muggles.

—Which was the other main thought in Hermione’s head. She did disapprove of shallow relationships. She didn’t like mass consumerism. She did want more culture and true magical advancement among wizards. She did agree that there was a lot of magical talent wasted on gimmicks and jokes, and she always had. It had, in fact, been a source of contention between her and the younger Weasleys in her original time….

Hermione realized that she had spent almost twice as many years with Tom as she had with her old friends.

Her hands still covering her eyes, she felt the mattress shift as he sat down near her. He was not directly next to her, but he was on the bed. She uncovered her eyes and glanced briefly at him, but could not remain focused on him for long.

“I agree with your end goals,” she finally said. “I want the same things you want.”

Out of the corner of her left eye, she saw him relax minutely.

“But this particular method… I can’t support it. I can’t support taking away the means for witches to avoid pregnancies. And I’m not even convinced that it’ll _work._ It might just create a lot of unhappy families. You seem to be under the impression that there are all these people in shallow relationships shagging carelessly, and that this would make them take it seriously. But some couples simply don’t want children, and they take their relationship _very_ seriously.”

He exhaled in exasperation. “They can give them to the adoption system,” he said very slowly, clenching his teeth.

“You don’t understand. They don’t want children, but if they did have them, they wouldn’t want to give them up.”

“Then that’s what the law is supposed to do.”

“Then this isn’t just about making people ‘take relationships seriously,’ is it?” she retorted. “You think you know better than they do about what people should do with their lives. You think you can shove them into a life they didn’t want and they’ll decide they like it after all. What would you think if someone tried to… to make you work in a joke shop, because they thought it was best for society for whatever reason, and they also thought that you’d learn to like it eventually? You shouldn’t force parenthood on people who don’t want it.”

He frowned. “I… might be persuaded to add an exception for couples like that.”

Hermione pounced. “I’m going to hold you to that.”

“They’d have to be married couples, though. And involved in something else that would better our people… magical research, fine arts, or something.”

She scowled. She did not think couples should have to justify themselves to the Ministry in such a way, but she also knew quite well that Tom was unlikely to compromise any further.

“And if they changed their minds and did have a child, they wouldn’t be eligible for an exemption anymore. I… could do that,” he said thoughtfully. “There aren’t _that_ many wizarding couples who deliberately have no children. The problem is couples who only have one. They do want to be parents, so I’m not ‘shoving them into a life they didn’t want.’ They just need to have more.”

He wasn’t going to drop this idea, Hermione realized. He was really determined to do this. Still… that was at least _some_ sort of concession. She resolved to hold him to his word. She wished he would concede more, but she also understood that political compromises tended to satisfy no one a hundred percent. It was something, anyway. This would be a natural announcement for him to make following the collapse of Crouch’s almost-successful bid.

“Look, you saw the population charts. Unlike Crouch, you understand the numbers and where they lead. What do you suggest?” he asked.

“I don’t know. You’re trying to change how people think. That’s not easy.”

He smirked and drew closer to her, moving next to her. “It’s actually extremely easy. A single spell, starts with an ‘I’… though maybe not for a whole population.”

She scowled disapprovingly at his notion of humor, but she did not protest as he reached out to touch her.

“I’m still not going to offer unreserved support,” she said as she fell into his embrace.

“And I will duly consider your ideas, as long as you don’t try to remove me from my office again.” His right hand dropped to her belly, and his eyes darkened.

Hermione grumbled in irritation, but she was responding to his touch already. She met his eyes with hers. “Then _you_ had better not use _me_ as a prop. My objections are principled, not personal, and I don’t mind having another baby—though I wish you hadn’t tricked me into it—but you’d _better_ not use this.”

“I know. I didn’t do it for a crass reason like that. Our family is special.”

He was pulling her close, his other arm reaching around her back. Her feelings were a whirl right now—relief that the argument had not been any worse, relief that he had finally conceded on _something,_ exasperation that he had still not conceded as much as she would have liked. The tight coil of anxiety of the past month and a half was finally dissipating. She had never intended him to know about this, but for some reason she was relieved that he did. It really _hadn’t_ felt right to have major secrets from him. She was also proud of him for not lashing out violently and for actually hearing her out.

She hadn’t accomplished everything she had hoped, but she had learned one thing beyond a doubt: She really did mean just as much to him as he always said she did. He might have coldly put her aside, never to trust her again, but instead he had been worried—legitimately fearful—that _she_ didn’t really want _him._

She returned the embrace, burying her head in his neck. Suddenly she wanted him very much—and from the looks of it, he wanted her as well. She eased his jacket off his shoulders, prompting a momentary look of surprise from him—but a smirk of pleasure quickly replaced it. He removed one hand from her body to untie his necktie, keeping that smirk on his face the whole time. She returned it and, with a sudden surge of confidence, pushed him backward on the pillows.

“Well that’s unusual,” he murmured as she straddled him. She shimmied out of her own suit top and regarded him with a continued smirk.

“Did you really think I was going to let you take charge— _this_ time, of all times?”

He unbuckled his belt and unzipped his trousers as she unzipped her skirt. “It’s what you deserve.”

She tossed the skirt aside. “That’s too bad for you, then.”

His hands found her waist, now devoid of any clothing except her satiny knickers. Those quickly came off as well, followed at once by the remaining articles of clothing that he wore. She straddled him again. He put his hands on her waist again, the warm, dry texture of his fingertips a sharp and delicious contrast with her soft skin, just as she began to mount him.

He ground against her as she sank onto him, letting out a groan. “We needed this,” he managed to get out.

She was breathing heavily already, the intensity and suddenness of the moment quickly sending her towards her peak. “We did,” she gasped. “Much better way to end a fight than—duels.”

His fingers dug into her waist as he bucked into her. “You are _mine_ and I’m glad you never questioned that.”

She panted. “And _you_ are _mine.”_

The light in his eyes gleamed, but white rather than red. He regarded her for a moment, almost frozen in time. A ghost of a smirk formed on his face—

—And then he flipped her over. He began to move aggressively in her, almost jerkily, forcing her against the mattress. For a few seconds she relaxed, not fighting him, because it was the most familiar position and she was always so turned on by his assertiveness—but then she gripped his narrow waist and, with a forceful movement that made his eyes widen in surprise, rolled him on his back again.

In the next moment, she felt him come. He collapsed on his back, his eyes still wide and staring at her in awe, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Seeing him like that, with his dark head half-buried in pillows of Slytherin green and grey, and knowing that she had done it to him, was at that moment the most erotic thing she could imagine. She rode him a couple more times before feeling her own release, then rested on top of him. He flopped an arm over her.

“That really was a much better way to end an argument,” he murmured after a bit, moving his arm to let her get up.

She flashed him a smile as they began to put their clothes back on.

* * *

_The next day._

Hermione perused the headlines of the _Daily Prophet_.

 

_MASS REVOLT: Allies Abandon Crouch After “Blood Purity Dog Whistle” Editorial_

_Malfoy Fined for Breach of Wizarding Secrecy in Extramarital Affair!_

_Opinion: Since Crouch Collapse Was Self-Inflicted, Riddle Still Vulnerable_

_Opinion: Riddle Should Reach Out to Reformists Who Binned Crouch_

_Allegations about Riddle Re-Ignite Debate about Legitimacy of Dark Arts_

 

Against all odds, Tom had learned some valuable lessons about politics in this debacle, she thought. Perhaps it was because she was the messenger rather than someone whom, when all was said and done, he really didn’t respect as an equal. Perhaps no one else would have been able to persuade him to make a major concession in any signature law of his. He was going to announce the revised form of it today, in his first (and probably last, she admitted wryly to herself) outreach to the fickle radical Reformists.

To her surprise, Crouch had not resigned his position, and he had declared that he would not do so. That was not uncommon as an initial assertion made by a politician who had suffered a major defeat, but he really didn’t seem inclined to step down. _Maybe that’s why he never openly declared in the first place,_ she thought cynically. _He must realize that between the scandalous allegations about him, and this failed campaign—official or not—he won’t be considered seriously again, at least not for many years. Only one part of one faction would support him now, and that’s just not enough anymore._

Hermione regarded the calendar with a measured look. It wouldn’t be too many years before the Muggles would develop reliable medications for birth control. Although she realized that it would do little but provide an easy target for Tom’s regulators if she openly imported them into the wizarding world, it would be next to impossible for the Ministry to stop individual witches from obtaining it once it became widely available in the Muggle world.

_And with our better awareness of the Muggle world compared to how things could have gone, they will learn,_ she thought, _and those who are determined to get it will._

Hermione thought again about the population analysis of the wizarding world. It was grim, and there was no avoiding that. _But even though he didn’t think education about the problem would be enough to solve it, there’s one good thing that he’s done. He has brought our long-term future to the forefront of policy discussion. People do know now. And they just might prove him wrong._

She hoped so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That concludes “Wizarding Renaissance.” Their argument ended up being a lot less harsh than I’d originally intended. I just don’t really want to write them having vicious fights again.
> 
> Yes, I strongly believe that in politics, sometimes you have to hold your nose and accept a compromise that you don't love, because _cutting off_ your nose to spite your face will not get you anything but a hole in your head. You don't have to agree with me, but I hope you can still enjoy it as a story even if you think this compromise goes too far.
> 
> Next up, wizarding problems in the Cold War. Tom and Hermione are not at odds for the next storyline. I may not post it immediately; there may be a one-shot of some sort, but it’s coming soon.
> 
> **Something Nice:** I’ve designed Hermione and Tom’s house in an open-source 3D design program. If you’d like to take a look, [here](http://betagyre-penname.tumblr.com/post/151042595909/riddle-house) are screencaps of 3D renderings of various rooms in it, as well as images of the floor plans.


	16. Purgatory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione and Tom still have to regain full trust in each other after the recent revelations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, this is not the promised Cold War storyline—yet. After a personal discussion with my friend [bainsidhe](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bainsidhe/pseuds/bainsidhe), I decided that Tom and Hermione needed to talk more about what had happened, especially the "unexpected" (to Hermione) pregnancy. There were two major breaches of trust in the Renaissance storyline, one committed by each of them, and I think this needed to be better resolved before I start another major storyline with them. This ended up surprisingly touchy-feely, and although I'm not sure it quite counts as family fluff, their whole family does make an appearance, so I hope you enjoy.

Although it was over, the _Daily Prophet_ had continued to be brutal to everyone involved in the shadow campaign.

 

_Crouch Determined To Stay, Declares Didn’t Lose Because “I Never Challenged the Minister”_

_Irritated with Crossover Support for Riddle Administration, Radical Isolationists Want Ministry Officials To Declare Factional Loyalty_

_Why Hasn’t Wounded Minister Riddle Made a Statement Yet?_

_Dumbledore, Slughorn Hedge When Asked about Riddle’s Interest in Dark Arts as a Student_

_Dark Force Defense League: Seventh-Years Could Not Have Defeated Grindelwald Without Dark Magic_

That last headline disgusted Hermione. The truth, of course, was even more explosive than the notion that Tom and she had used the Dark Arts to duel Grindelwald, but she rather resented being drawn into this at all.

She was also more than a little put out at the Headmaster and Deputy Headmaster. Although the quotations themselves might have been exaggerated—especially in the _Prophet’s_ analysis of Dumbledore and Slughorn’s “hesitation” and “obfuscation”—the _Prophet_ had photographs of both of them as they were interviewed, and their body language was indeed that of people who were trying to avoid incriminating somebody.

Dumbledore might have accepted that he was Minister now, perhaps even a good one in some ways, and he might have got over some of his dislike and distrust of Tom, but Hermione rather wished she had not ever told Dumbledore anything about Tom’s alternate life, even the vague statement that she “hadn’t liked” him for some nebulous things he did in that timeline and that he would have become somewhat like Grindelwald. As for Slughorn, Tom _had_ performed a Memory Charm on old Sluggy after the confrontation in 1945 at the Black house, in which Tom revived himself after the Killing Curse and boasted to Slughorn exactly how he had done it… but Memory Charms were not infallible. People might still have scattered fragments—lacking context, but that could be easily filled in by logical deduction. And Slughorn definitely still remembered the sixth-year conversation about Horcruxes. Although Hermione doubted that Sluggy had been thinking of the Grimmauld Place confrontation when the _Prophet_ questioned him—he _shouldn’t_ have any clear memories of Tom doing anything Dark during it—she did believe he had been thinking about the Horcrux discussion. She sincerely hoped he never told anyone else about it—and that Dumbledore never found it by Legilimency.

There seemed to be a growing consensus in the wizarding community that the _Quibbler_ had got it right, for once, and the Minister for Magic was indeed a Dark wizard. Tom himself had admitted to using “inappropriate” curses as a prefect, and now, between the suspicious behavior of the Heads of Hogwarts and that statement by the Dark Force Defense League, people seemed more inclined to believe it than not.

Hermione knew that by the 1990s, assertions from the Dark Force Defense League would have been dubious. It would have considered Parseltongue a Dark Art, as she had learned in fourth year when the _Prophet_ exposed Harry and quoted someone from the organization on the topic. But at the present, it was a respected organization that focused on scholarship in the field of Defense, although it also had a bit of a moralistic streak in its opposition to the Dark Arts. She herself had worked with some of its researchers, which was perhaps why the accusations hurt. _And Tom himself originally believed that he had to use Dark Magic to defeat Grindelwald,_ she recalled, _since he didn’t know that Grindelwald was going to let him win. I don’t think it would have been necessary, but it doesn’t surprise me that a research organization would conclude that in an analysis—especially since the current narrative is “the Minister is politically wounded.”_

She wondered if Tom was allowing the Dark Magic rumor about the Grindelwald duel to spread because the obvious alternative—that Grindelwald lost on purpose—would only feed the conspiracy theories of the radical Reformists about his sympathies for Grindelwald’s ideology, or even revive Arcturus Black’s old (correct) espionage theory in radical Isolationist circles. He probably was doing just that, she thought. He _did_ want the Dark Arts to become respectable in Britain again.

She looked over the rest of the headlines. Tom had not yet issued a statement about the Crouch collapse. The current consensus among the political class was that he was the beneficiary of an extremely lucky break and should do something to better secure his standing if he meant to fend off future challenges.

He was going to do that, today in fact. This afternoon he was going to implement his amended Renaissance Plan as law and declare his intention to work with “members of other factions who want to work in good faith.” Hermione was not planning to be present at the Ministry press conference. Although she was pleased that he had compromised, she still believed that the law was too extreme, and she didn’t want to be seen at an event that would be interpreted as her giving her personal approval to it. She stayed at work that day, giving him the excuse that she was very busy with a problem in one of her departments. He seemed to know that she was simply uncomfortable being there, but he did not press the point.

* * *

He seemed pleased enough that evening when he came home. “It was a good press conference,” he remarked over dinner. “My contact in the _Prophet_ says that the theme in tomorrow’s paper will be that I made a gracious compromise with a policy that had not even been a major controversy during the shadow campaign. It’s about time there was some better press.”

The children stared at their plates uncomfortably. He noticed. “What’s the matter?” he asked them.

Virgil only seemed to bury himself deeper in his chair, but Madeline looked up. “At Mum’s office today, Theresa Brocklehurst said that Dad practiced Dark Magic.”

“The daughter of one of my employees,” Hermione added quietly.

Madeline gave Tom a querying glance. “Was she talking about the cabinet of Dark items in Dad’s study?”

Hermione shot Tom a pointed look, nonverbally telling him, _This one’s all yours, dear._

Tom regarded his children contemplatively. “Madeline—you too, Virgil, look at me. Both of you are young, but you’re smart, and you’re obviously thinking about this already.”

They looked up, Virgil more reluctantly than his sister.

“Theresa Brocklehurst was not talking about my curio cabinet. She was talking about some things that are being said in the newspapers about me. Now, there’s something you need to understand about Dark Magic. The Dark Arts are an old type of magic. Merlin himself practiced them at times. They often—but not always—are associated with doing harm to others, but what really makes a spell Dark is if it changes what it does according to your intent. I do know the Dark Arts. I’ve studied many fields of magic, and I hope you do too. I created a spell once that can be used to heal injuries, but it’s considered Dark because the caster has to _want_ it to heal for it to do that, and the target has to welcome the pain it causes when it heals. That is absolutely necessary for it to work, and if either person thinks something else, it will do great harm instead.”

The children were listening intently. Hermione decided that she would intervene if he said anything that she didn’t like, but so far, she hadn’t heard anything objectionable.

“Spells that aren’t Dark don’t require you to mean them. If you say the words correctly and wave your wand right, that’s all it takes. On the other hand, people can say Dark spells, but if they don’t mean them, they won’t work. There are also Dark spells that become stronger if you mean them more. Our will is _very_ powerful, and the Dark Arts use it much more than other forms of magic. Some people find that frightening.” He regarded them speculatively, watching them to see how they took this.

They seemed to accept his explanation. The looks of concern on their young faces lifted, and Hermione did not see anything wrong with what he had said… this time. She did wonder what it implied about the Patronus Charm, which worked best if the caster focused on a very powerful happy memory. Perhaps the Patronus Charm _was_ once classified as a Dark Art, but as the word “Dark” became more defined as “harmful” than as “unpredictable,” wizards stopped thinking of a positive spell that way. It was an interesting consideration.

* * *

Ever since their long argument and discussion about Hermione’s secret political activities, she had felt that matters between them had not quite been fully resolved. They had covered a lot of ground in the argument, but not all of it that needed to be covered eventually—and after the initial catharsis of the discussion, Hermione had realized that there was a fracture, a state of broken trust between them that had not come close to being restored.

Her own activities had not actually removed him from office, but they _had_ weakened his political standing. The press, formerly more or less on his side, had abruptly turned on him at the first sign of weakness. There was a widespread belief in politics now that unless he acted strongly to restore his position of strength, a new challenger would emerge who would _not_ self-destruct and would succeed where Caspar Crouch failed. She was not convinced that was true; the alliance between the radicals of the Isolationist and Reformist factions was an artificial one, an alliance of convenience rather than one formed from any ideological kinship. Tom had a much more robust, natural alliance, claiming the support of the moderates of both factions, as well as his own Wizarding Nationalists. It was in his interest for the radicals to become more powerful in their factions, because that would drive the moderates to his faction. When it came to the Wizengamot vote, he was quite secure in his seat. But his political authority would be diminished if people _thought_ his seat was precarious—and it was her doing. He had been relieved to learn that she had not ever actually wanted him out of office, but she had broken his trust and done him harm anyway.

Although he had not harmed her, he had broken her trust as well in tampering with her contraceptive potion. Now that she was pregnant with their child, she wanted to keep it, but it did offend her that he had simply acted behind her back without even asking her. Either he hadn’t cared at all about her choice in the matter despite her being his wife, purportedly his equal partner, or he hadn’t trusted that he could discuss it productively with her. Thinking of the first possibility angered her; thinking of the second one hurt.

She decided that these issues needed to be discussed. They needed to have them out in the open so that they could begin to close the breach. That night, after the children had gone to bed, after they had each had baths, after a very satisfying romp in bed that she knew would make each of them feel close and open to the other, she brought it up.

“I need to know something,” Hermione said, idly stroking his leg as she lay next to him on the pillows.

He tensed slightly but inclined his head toward hers, his eyes meeting her own.

“Why didn’t you ask me about—this?” She pointed to her belly. “Was it because it was for politics? The three-child family you want every wizarding family to be?”

He stared at her, not unkindly, collecting his thoughts. “Hermione, I need to explain something about that.”

“Please do.”

“I will often want something for one reason—a primary reason, let’s say—but I’ll see that there are other, secondary benefits I’ll get if I do it, and I have no qualms about seizing them. In fact, I consider it foolish not to, when they’re on offer. It’s like when I first proposed to you. You initially thought that it was because it would make me look good to Ministry officials—the ‘young hero just married to his Hogwarts sweetheart—who was also a hero,’ instead of the ‘bachelor with a deed to his name that would make him cocky and irresistible to women.’ And I didn’t even argue that that had occurred to me. I’m a Slytherin. I _see_ those things. I _think_ of those things, and I did see the material advantages it would give me to marry you at once… but it wasn’t the primary reason I wanted to. It was just a perk. A much less important perk, for that matter.

“And this is the same way. I knew that there would be political benefits, but that was not _why_ I wanted it. I just… did.”

“If that’s so, why didn’t you just say you wanted another child?”

He looked down, breaking eye contact, and hesitated for a second. “Because I—well, you were so vehemently against the law when I first told you about it. I was sure that you would think it was for politics, or that it was in some way related to the law—that perhaps I was determined that the law would affect you too—and that if I did ask you, you’d refuse because of that, even if you weren’t actually against the idea of having another child.”

Hermione’s eyebrows narrowed. “Tom, if that’s your true reasoning, then very well, but I didn’t push you to do it. You assumed these things yourself. Don’t blame me for it.”

He met her eyes again. “I’m not blaming you. I’m just explaining what I thought. I didn’t want to do it if you’d already refused. You would have instantly assumed that it was me, and things would have spiraled entirely out of control. I thought that if it were a surprise, something that just appeared to have _happened,_ then you wouldn’t necessarily assume that I did anything to the potion… and you also wouldn’t have the revulsion that I thought you’d have had if I asked you first.” He subsided.

Hermione sighed as she thought about his words. She knew that he didn’t intend to place blame on her for it, especially since he _hadn’t_ given her the chance to say anything in advance, but it still troubled her. He wasn’t blaming her, exactly, but it bothered her that he would think she would have reacted in such a way if he had asked her honestly. This was the second possibility she had considered, the one that hurt, and having it confirmed only hurt more.

As she thought about it, she realized why. _Would I have reacted that way?_ she thought, somewhat distressed at the idea. _If he had broached the subject of a third child with me so soon after announcing that law, would I have thought that it was for politics?_ She felt a swooping feeling in her gut as she realized the answer. _Yes, I might have. I very well might have reacted that way._

It still didn’t make this her fault, and he should have asked her anyway—it still would have been a talk, and even if she had said things like that, he could have convinced her otherwise if he had kept his cool. But it was a bit upsetting that his negative assumptions might have been correct, and it was even more upsetting that he had avoided talking with her about something so serious because he believed that she would react badly. That hurt. _Clearly,_ she thought, _we do need to rebuild trust in each other._

She took a deep breath and faced him. If they were being fully honest with each other, she couldn’t create an exception for herself about this. “I don’t know how I would have responded if you’d asked me first. You may be right,” she admitted. “I might have responded just as you think I would have—at first. I don’t know for sure. It’s a possibility. But I still wish you had asked me. Even if I had that reaction, you could have persuaded me if you’d just talked—just been honest about why you really wanted it.”

He did not respond in words, but he suddenly found it hard to meet her gaze. He seemed almost ashamed. She recalled the flicker of guilt in his face when she had blurted the question during their argument.

“Obviously, I _don’t_ hate the idea. This is a child of ours. How could I hate that? Our family _is_ special, and… well… I think it’ll be good for Virgil to have a younger sibling. He’s so diffident and quiet… but then, Madeline does have a very forceful personality. This will be good for _her_ too, I think.” She touched Tom’s chest softly. “It wasn’t in my plans, but I am not against this. You should have asked me. You would have discovered that.”

He reached out and held her hesitantly, almost as if asking permission nonverbally. She shifted to face him, her knees splayed over his legs, and gave him an encouraging smile. He broke into that smirk of his that she knew so well and instantly pulled her to himself.

It was very nice to be held by him once more, just held. She nestled against his chest, enjoying the calmness and warmth of the moment, before continuing with the rest of it.

“And… I should have tried to talk with you more instead of going in secret to create a situation that would put pressure on you,” she admitted. “Since we did arrive at a compromise of sorts when we finally talked about it.”

He tensed beneath her. She noticed the change, the slight difference in the gentleness of his embrace, and raised her gaze to his face. He seemed reluctant to speak.

“Tom?”

He breathed in deeply, closed his eyes for a moment, and then opened them again to regard her with gloom in his face. “I’m not sure I would have compromised as much,” he said quietly. “I might have, I suppose. If you recall, my very first version of the Plan didn’t have an exception for families that had three or more children. I decided that night, after you were so against it, that I should add in something like that and perhaps you’d like it better.”

“I didn’t realize that. I thought someone at your meeting suggested it.”

“No—it was my own idea.” He paused. “I thought it would be enough. I might have included the new exception for childless couples if you’d talked with me, but I don’t know.”

 _He doesn’t know what he would have said if I’d talked to him, and neither do I if he had talked to me,_ she thought. She gazed at him with pleading eyes. “Let’s be sure we don’t have to brood about ‘what if’ in the future,” she urged. “Let’s make sure we _know_ what we would have said to each other because we actually have all these honest, serious talks next time. It’s better that way. We shouldn’t play puppetmaster with each other. We’re both intelligent adults. We should be able to talk seriously about important things.”

His body relaxed again, and a faint smile appeared on his face. He wrapped his arms tighter around her. “Yes—and I agree. We will.”

She smiled back.


	17. Subversion, Part I: Blood Trail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All was well for Minister Riddle… until he receives news of some very disturbing incidents east of the Iron Curtain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This begins a four-chapter plotline that develops the dark hints dropped in the chapter “Failure at the Highest Level” and elsewhere. There are a couple of OCs in it, but you’ll also see some familiar names.

Tom finished reading the papers before him and shoved them aside, his brow creasing in anger and concern. Another top secret international report from the Eastern Resistance describing another massacre of magical people. An entire wizarding family had been slaughtered in their beds. This was the fifth such report this month.

 _What is going on?_ he thought in desperation. He gazed at the cabinet beside his desk, knowing that it harbored a bottle of firewhisky. Bad idea. He knew he needed his mind to remain alert.

Now that the Magical Resistance Liaison Office answered directly to the Minister, rather than the Head of International Magical Cooperation, Tom had no bureaucracy to scramble through in summoning his security team. He did not like having to give them more bad news, but it was still news, and they needed to know. Steeling himself, he sent notes to everyone in his Ministerial security team, calling a meeting in the Grey Room—the secure office in the Ministry that was accessible only to the Minister and those he allowed inside. The Grey Room was adjacent to the Minister’s office. From the outside hall, it looked no larger than a coat closet, its narrow wall sandwiched between the doors to the Minister’s office and the next office.

The four security advisors arrived, three from their own offices in the Ministry of Magic and the last one through Tom’s secure Floo in his office. He smiled at Hermione as she dusted herself off with her wand. He would not even _think_ of excluding her. She wouldn’t have it, for one; they had a mutual agreement that they shared everything important. Besides, her knowledge of history—including Muggle history that had not even happened—was beyond price.

A knock sounded at the office door. He flicked his wand to open it and watched the rest of his advisors shuffle inside. Vincent Rosier, his own deputy. Patrick Greengrass, Head of Ally Relations and Tom’s best source of intelligence about internal politics in the International Magical Cooperation Department. And Connor Lynch, a wizard who had long been passed over in the Ministry for promotions due to his Irish background, but had come to Tom’s attention for his extensive knowledge of travel and political history—and was now the Director of Magical Resistance Liaison. Tom strode to the Grey Room door, accessible only from inside his office, and pressed his open palm against a certain area of it. The door opened silently and the group walked inside.

The room was, as would be expected, grey. Even its ceiling was painted slate grey, which gave it a dark and cavernous feel. A small table and chairs stood in the middle; a quill, inkwell, and notepad lay on the table in front of each seat. As the door opened, a magical table lamp flicked on in the center of the table. Water glasses that had been turned upside down flipped and filled with ice water, also triggered by the opening of the door.

Tom took his seat in the most ornate chair and brought out all of his grim news reports. The door closed behind them with a flick of his wand. Four unhappy faces, filled with knowing dread, met his own. He breathed deeply before beginning.

“Well,” he said, “I’m sure you can all guess why I’ve called this meeting.” He shuffled the papers, bringing the most recent one to the top. “Another report from Russia today. Another family in the Resistance killed in their own home.”

“Is it a magical or a Muggle killing?” Lynch asked.

“Karkaroff’s report says that it’s another murder of magical people by filthy Muggle bullets.” Tom could not keep the venom out of his words, and in private, he did not even try.

Hermione looked down at the glass of ice water refracting the lamplight. These ugly attacks in the East were bringing out a side of him that, admittedly, had been present all along, but that he had not had much reason to show until now. She breathed in and out, collecting her thoughts. “So—the second instance of that in Russia. And the other three Russian massacres were clearly curses.”

Tom nodded, shuffling through his notes. “In total… two mass murders in Russia now, both in St. Petersburg. Eight individual killings in Ukraine, all in the east. One individual killing apiece in Poland, Bulgaria, Romania. All by foul Muggle weapons.”

The security advisors grunted in disgust and worry.

“By magical means… three mass slaughters in Russia. One in Ukraine. One in Poland. An information lockdown in Bulgaria ever since the killings there, which I’ll be making inquiries about. There have been also scattered magical killings of individuals throughout the Eastern bloc, and it’s my suspicion that they are related to—whatever is going on.” He sipped his water, trying to calm the anger that simmered in his mind whenever he had to think about this horrible situation. “And the disappearances in Ukraine.”

“Does Koroleva have any new information about that?” Greengrass asked. Volodymira Koroleva was the Head Witch of the Ukrainian Magical Resistance.

“I haven’t asked her. This literally just came in. I summoned you lot here to tell you about this latest mass murder and to ask if you have any new theories about this situation.”

Hermione spoke up. “Is there information about the type of Muggle bullets used in this most recent one? Same as before?”

Tom nodded.

She blew out her breath. “Then that confirms my worst fear. The ammunition, the number of times those poor people were shot, the fact that there were also bullet holes in their surroundings, all indicate Muggle automatic or semi-automatic weapons. These are state agents, Tom. Ordinary Muggles in the Soviet Union don’t have that kind of weaponry.” She met his eyes, a very grim expression in her own.

He sighed. “You know I don’t like that conclusion.”

“Nobody does, but it’s inescapable. We should have accepted the truth of it after all the individual witches and wizards in Ukraine being killed by Muggle guns… but two massacres of magical families by Muggle weapons that only the state could have? Tom, somebody has defected. You know they have. That’s the only way the state has of even knowing who the magical people _are.”_

The wizards at the table were silent at Hermione’s words, contemplating them. It made logical sense. The resistance movements in that part of the world, the shadow magical governments that mainly served to protect their constituencies, did not communicate with Muggle authorities whatsoever, not even the Soviet Premier. It was rather unlike the United Kingdom. As much as he loathed it, Tom was still legally obligated to tell the Muggle Prime Minister about any local wizarding problem that might affect Muggles.

“It does seem to be the only logical explanation,” Patrick Greengrass agreed grimly, “but _why?_ What kind of wizard would tell Muggles to kill other wizards?”

Tom looked utterly disgusted at having it spelled out like that. He was unable to even formulate an answer.

“A naïve one,” Lynch declared. “Anyone can be brainwashed. It could be someone who genuinely thinks that the Muggles have a good system and that wizards ought to be forced to be part of it.”

“We can’t permit that,” Tom said bluntly. “If the Soviet Union acquired its own force of magical operatives, they would absolutely use them against the West. And I don’t even need to say what that would mean.”

He did not. Everyone at the table knew what it would mean: British and American nuclear warheads would be at risk of magical sabotage from the Soviet-aligned wizards, and there would be absolutely nothing that the Muggles could do to prevent it. The Imperius Curse, Memory Charms, the Disillusionment Charm, Alohomora, magical locking charms to lock the Muggles out of their own facilities, explosion curses…. And the nuclear sites in the Soviet Union were equally vulnerable to undetectable magical attack. Wizards could start a global nuclear war if they ever took it into their heads to do so.

And it was utterly imperative that the Muggle leaders _never_ find that out. The Muggle President in America didn’t even know that wizards existed, since there was such a history of anti-magic hatred in that country. If Muggle leaders in the West knew of the danger, it could mean the forced exploitation of their entire wizarding populations to counter the presumed Soviet threat. If West and East temporarily put their differences aside and came to the accord that the danger was simply too great even for that, it could even mean the global annihilation of magical people.

The moment of potent, menacing silence passed, and Tom spoke again. “You four are my security team. Are we in agreement that the situation has reached the point of requiring Ministerial action? Unanimously?”

Every person nodded.

He shuffled his papers again, apparently as an acknowledgment. “As for the magical murders, I’m presuming that they are probably done by people who are terrorized by the news of the Muggle killings and are lashing out at other wizards who they think may be traitors. It’s a bad situation all around, and—unless someone _does_ happen to kill the turncoat—it won’t get better until the problem has been dealt with. We shouldn’t depend on murderous vigilantes to get it right, either.” He gazed at Lynch. “I’m going to ask all our top contacts to send us everything they know—Koroleva, Karkaroff, Baginski, and the Krums.” He turned to Greengrass. “Can we expect any help?”

Greengrass scowled. “Doubtful. You know how the French minister is. He seems to think that we’re answerable for the Muggles’ weapons, and that it’s not his problem because the Muggles in his country don’t have those weapons yet.”

Tom snorted. “I do know about him. What about the Americans?”

“I’ll ask. It’s possible they might send some Aurors if we dispatch a mission—as it appears we will. I wouldn’t count on them, though.”

“Are you going to invoke Section Six?”

Greengrass, Rosier, and Hermione gazed up sharply at Lynch, who had spoken.

Tom stared at the table. “I’d like to, I won’t lie. But I don’t think the Reformists on the Wizengamot will stand for it until I’ve heard back from the Resistance leaders, and the consensus is that I still have to reach out to them. I’ll wait.” He drained his water glass and rose from the chair.

The meeting broke up, and the Grey Room emptied. Lynch, Rosier, and Greengrass returned to their offices in the Ministry building, but Hermione remained behind in Tom’s main office.

“Are you feeling better?” he asked her briskly.

Hermione had been experiencing mild post-partum depression after the birth of Cynthia, their third child. Despite that, Tom’s mode of speaking did not hurt her feelings. She knew that he was not great at expressing empathy for deeply personal problems in readily identifiable ways—unless he himself had experienced the same problem before—but she knew what he meant.

“I have been,” she replied. “I’ve felt really terrible that I’ve had this at all—”

“It’s not your fault. Always remember that.”

She smiled at him and squeezed his hand. “Thank you. That means a lot to me,” she said with feeling.

He managed a brief smile in return. Once again, it was something of a struggle for him, but he was better about it. Gone were the days when his only way of demonstrating his concern for her was to lash out in anger against her enemies.

“I’m going to contact the Resistance right now, actually,” he said. “Do you want to talk to anyone?”

Hermione chuckled darkly. “No, thank you. Grindelwald—”

Tom frowned. “Hermione, this office is secure, but do be careful.”

She rolled her eyes. “I am careful. I just don’t see the point in using that fake name when I’m alone with you.”

“It’s the name he goes by now.”

“It’s a bad choice of name. ‘Geryk’ is just the Polish version of his given name, and ‘Baginski,’ really? That doesn’t look _at all_ like great-auntie ‘Bagshot,’ certainly not,” she said sarcastically.

“He’s disguised his appearance well enough that nobody recognizes him. He wouldn’t have become leader of the Polish resistance otherwise.”

 _“Anyhow,”_ Hermione said pointedly. “If you’re just going to ask them to gather information, I see no reason to stick my head into your fire for that. And I’m still uncomfortable around the Krums, but I certainly can’t tell them why.”

He scowled briefly, not wanting to be reminded that she had kissed their son in an alternate timeline.

“And that’s another reason _Geryk_ needs to keep his past a secret. He killed Georgi Krum’s father.”

“He knows.”

“What is his endgame, do you think?”

Tom considered, bringing his fingertips together under his chin. “Well, you say the Soviet bloc won’t fall for several decades yet. That may or may not happen the same way this time… but I don’t think his endgame is anything more than to remain leader of the underground magical resistance in that country. He’s almost eighty years old—and while I know that’s not ‘old’ for a wizard, it’s apparent that he does regret what he did in the past and wants to make amends for it. I really do think he is doing just what he wants to do at this time of his life.”

“I suppose in the other timeline, he regretted his deeds too,” she mused. “I just don’t know how long it took. But, all right. I just don’t want him to be a problem for you, Tom.”

“Oh, if he ever becomes a ‘problem,’ I’ll take care of it,” he said darkly. “And I hope you wouldn’t object to that this time.”

She winced but shook her head in a negative. “I don’t love the idea, but I do agree.”

Once she had returned by Floo to her own office, Tom used the fireplace to send secure letters to his top contacts in the East: Volodymira Koroleva of Ukraine, Igor Karkaroff in Russia, Svetla and Georgi Krum in Bulgaria, and Geryk Baginski—formerly known as Gellert Grindelwald—in Poland. He hoped that with up-to-date, cohesive, complete information about the killings and disappearances in all of their countries, they would be able to put pieces together that he couldn’t know as an outsider. He returned to work, hoping to hear from at least one of them soon.

* * *

It did not take long for Tom to hear back from the Krums. He had specifically requested an update from them, having heard nothing from Bulgaria for quite a while. A young married couple, they owned a large estate in Bulgaria and used their money—which Georgi Krum had inherited quite early when Grindelwald had killed his father—to help the Bulgarian resistance movement. They had kept their ancestral home from being seized by the Communists by employing magical protection.

The mirror above Tom’s fireplace flashed a message indicating that they wished to speak to him. The new Floo system did not let visitors impose themselves on someone else when using a private fireplace; the owner of the fireplace had to approve it. Tom flicked his wand at the hearth, permitting them to come through, and rose from his desk to speak to them.

“It’s good to hear from you so quickly,” he said smoothly as their faces appeared in the flames. “What’s the word from Bulgaria?”

Svetla Krum seemed to be the spokesperson. She got straight to the point, speaking in a heavily accented but still understandable voice. “Minister Riddle, ve have to tell you, ve have no news from the outside. Ve have… it is a safe zone, I think is the term in English? Ve use the Fidelius Charm to protect our boundaries.”

“You use the Fidelius Charm to protect… an area? As a safe zone for the Resistance? This is why I’ve heard nothing from you for so long?”

“Yes. Ven this news of the murders first reached us, and the first Resistance member was killed by guns in Bulgaria, my husband and I did this. He is Secret-Keeper. The area it protects of my husband’s family estate is vast and ve offer this protection to any of our people for as long as there is crisis.”

“And you have been doing this for weeks?”

“It has been so for four veeks.”

“And you’ve been focused, then, on protecting your own people? No news to offer?”

“Most of the Resistance members known to us have accepted our protection. They do not vant to fight against the Muggles. They just vant to live in peace.”

Tom thought about that. “Well,” he finally said, “I commend you for that. You’re doing right by your people, certainly,” he got out. “I can’t deny that I wish you had more news, but you’re protecting your people with your own family resources, and keeping them as safe as you can in a dangerous time. Do inform me if anything changes, though.”

The Krums agreed to do this, and the Floo connection closed.

Tom scowled as he retreated to his desk. That was rather useless. He couldn’t fault the Krums for turning their vast estate into a safe zone for magical families in Bulgaria; if they did not have the resources to investigate the murders—and, he had to admit, probably did not trust other resistance governments with their “census,” given the likelihood of a defection—then to hunker down and ride it out made sense. It just didn’t make _his_ job any easier.

He wondered what Karkaroff would have to say. Hermione had not liked the fact that Igor Karkaroff was the head of the Russian rebel government; she had said that in the alternate timeline, he was a shifty character with questionable loyalties to anyone but himself. Tom had pointed out that in his own alternate life, he apparently would have been a demented, maniacal terrorist leader. Karkaroff was clearly doing something different, something he would not have done in the other timeline. Hermione had not been able to argue against that. In any case, the Russians had chosen him as their leader, and Tom had no influence over that decision.

Still, the two mass murders of magical people by Muggles had happened in _his_ city on his watch. Tom would have been ashamed for such a thing to have happened if _he_ were running a resistance government. Karkaroff needed to get his security situation sorted out, and quickly. He would be facing internal mutiny otherwise, if nothing else. _Perhaps,_ Tom mused, _he just isn’t a leader. Hermione says he ran Durmstrang, but apparently not very well. I imagine that central parts of someone’s personality wouldn’t change much._

The mirror above the fireplace flashed again, indicating that a letter from Volodymira Koroleva was arriving. Tom summoned it to his desk and opened it.

 

_Minister Riddle,_

_I regret to hear of this recent news from Russia. There have been no new mass attacks upon my people, though with the eight slaughtered by the Muggles, we have suffered enough. I have decided no longer to share records of those under my protection, and I am sure you understand my reasons for this. If you have concluded that there is a wizard defector to the Soviet state, my secrecy needs no more defense. However, I do have a bit of news, though unrelated to the killings by Muggle forces. We have determined the killer of the Ivashko family and brought him to justice. It was a person who believed that they were responsible for the murder of one of the eight. There is no evidence that this was so._

 

“I suppose there’s one good thing,” Tom muttered. He made a note that the single mass murder in Ukraine, a wizard’s crime, had apparently been solved.

 

_What troubles me more is that my people continue to disappear, and most of the disappearances now are of children, or households with children. Several entire families in Kiev have vanished, leaving empty houses behind. There have also been cases of children of non-magicals who disappeared, while their parents were found slaughtered. You tell me that there have been no disappearances elsewhere in our region, only my country. This is very disturbing to me. I hope that the disappearances of entire families merely indicate the voluntary departure of those families, but it is my guess that vigilantes are trying to protect children of non-magicals and view their own parents as the enemy because of the killings by the Muggles of some of our people. It is a vile, nightmarish situation and I welcome any aid that our Western allies can offer in solving it and restoring security._

_If she’s right, they’re on the brink of civil war in Ukraine,_ Tom thought in horror. _No one trusts anyone else there—and there might even be more than one Soviet magical defector in all of this. Though if they’ve been sharing their census lists with each other, I don’t suppose it’s necessarily the case. Either way, this is definitely an international emergency._

Tom decided that he had seen quite enough. He sent quick notes to Hermione, Rosier, Lynch, and Greengrass explaining what he had just learned. Then he wrote a note on a different subject to the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot.

There was no reason for him to have to talk to the Muggle Prime Minister anymore, and in fact, he was convinced that it was a danger to the wizarding world that he had to give reports of any kind to the man. Muggle Britain was a nuclear power. Its closest ally was also a nuclear power. They were in a state of enmity with a third such.

With Wizarding Secrecy very likely breached, or almost breached—at grave risk of breach, at a minimum—in the Soviet bloc, and the fact that the American Muggle government knew nothing of its magical government, it was the height of foolishness for the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom to know of the wizarding world’s existence. No good could possibly come of it, Tom thought. It was a pointless act, a nod to “Muggle respect” and nothing else. Perhaps the man would not expose the wizarding world to the general Muggle population, but he very well could expose it to his own security team and that of his allies. Tom knew enough about Muggle culture to be aware of the fact that Muggle entertainment was currently interested in the idea of super-enhanced humans as weapons in this “Cold War.” The idea absolutely would not be impossible for Muggle governments to consider if they had credible evidence of it.

If a wizard _had_ defected to the Soviet cause, it would have to be taken care of, but it was a wizarding affair. Tom did _not_ want the Prime Minister to hear intelligence of a Soviet program that he would have the knowledge to identify as “magic.” With the nuclear espionage and sabotage fears of Muggles, witch-hunts could begin anew, and on a scale that would make the burning times look like a child’s game. Wizards in Britain could be rounded up, or worse, if this made its way to the wrong Muggle ears, and the utter secrecy in the United States would be breached, putting them at even graver risk. This situation could lead to the exposure of magic to paranoid Muggle leaders around the world, with unthinkable consequences.

* * *

“You’re invoking Section Six?” Hermione asked him that night nervously after the children had gone to sleep.

Tom hovered over baby Cynthia’s cradle, regarding her with an odd sort of tenderness. “I have to. This is as bad as I thought. You read my note.” He touched the baby’s dark hair. Unlike Madeline and Virgil, this child had Hermione’s brown hair rather than Tom’s black. “I can’t look at her—look at the others—and risk such terrible consequences to them.”

She placed her hand over his, touched by his words.

“Do you—are you all right with this?”

The question was genuine. She squeezed his hand. “This doesn’t bother me. It might have bothered me when I was a schoolgirl, growing up in a world torn apart by blood-purity rhetoric, but you’re quite correct that the actual law serves no purpose unless the Prime Minister chooses to act on information that the Minister for Magic relates—and _any_ action against magical people by the Muggle government would be a disaster.”

“It would be, and I won’t let it happen.” He gazed at her. “Would anything like this have happened—otherwise?”

Hermione shook her head. “No. I think history changed years ago. We’re well off the map that I knew.”

“‘Here there be dragons,’” Tom quoted wryly. “And we have to slay this one.”

* * *

_The next day._

The entire Wizengamot was gathered. The Minister was going to make an important announcement, and very few were in the know. The Minister’s wife and the rest of his security team apparently knew, though they were keeping their lips sealed before the storm of reporters gathering in the forum. Some people had speculated, but nobody else knew for sure what he was going to say. The rumor among the _Daily Prophet_ contingent was that it had some relation to the horrific reports coming out of the East about wizards being murdered. At least the public didn’t know that some of the murders were perpetrated by Muggles, and they certainly did not know that those killers were probably Soviet state agents. No one but the Minister and his security team knew that.

“The Chair recognizes the esteemed Minister for Magic.”

Tom stood up and faced the court. “Members of the Wizengamot. I am informing this body that, under my authority as Minister, I am ending communication with the Prime Minister of Muggles and Obliviating him—and his living predecessors—of all knowledge of our world.”

Rumblings began in the Reformist section of the court.

Tom continued without acknowledging the noise. “I am formally invoking Section Six of the Magical Security Act—”

There were audible gasps.

“—which allows the Minister to use his or her discretion to do this, and in accordance with the requirements of the Act regarding this decision, I hereby declare that a State of Emergency for Magical People exists.” Tom inclined his head to indicate that he was finished speaking for now.

The Wizengamot erupted into noise. The Chief Warlock stood up again.

“Order!” he wheezed. He pointed at a single wizard who had followed protocol to be called upon to speak next. “The Chair recognizes the Honorable Septimus Weasley.”

Weasley stood up and stared at Tom. “We acknowledge the authority given to the Minister to make this decision,” he said, “but on behalf of the Reformist faction, I would ask the Minister to explain why he has declared a State of Emergency now. If we are in danger, we deserve to know how and why.”

Tom spoke again. “As you know from reading the papers, there are reports from the Soviet Union that are very disturbing. These killings indicate that the stability of several of the rebel governments is in question. The magical populations there have lost some trust in their governments’ ability to keep them safe, due to these murders.” That was the line he had decided to give the public. They did not need to know anything else. The real truth was too disturbing.

Rumblings started anew, frightened ones this time. Tom held up a hand for silence.

“We are working closely with our allies to help them restore order and security, but because this crisis exists, my decision to declare a State of Emergency is justified by the existence of Muggle nuclear weapons in our own country, in the United States, and in the Soviet Union—and the state of hostility that exists between Muggle governments. With fragile wizarding governments in the East, Wizarding Secrecy itself is fragile there, and there is ample reason to believe that the Muggles would try to identify and exploit us… or worse… if their defense ministries knew of what we could do with their arsenals.”

“But Minister, surely the Muggles would know that we had no desire to cause nuclear war between their countries!”

“Would they?” Tom asked darkly. “The Muggles fear spies who could steal their national secrets and give the other side an advantage in a nuclear war. Whether nuclear war is rational doesn’t seem to be a factor for Muggles.” He sneered in contempt. “If Muggle war strategists knew about us, they would be terrified of what we can do to their weapons, undetectable to them until it’s too late—and the Muggle Prime Minister _does_ know about us. If the Soviet Union also learns about magic in the midst of this stability crisis, it’s a matter of time before intelligence reaches Muggle leaders’ ears in the West, and the Muggle Prime Minister of this country would understand what he heard. It is an unacceptable risk.”

“Minister, that may be, and I do take your point, but it seems to me that there is no time limit on this risk even once the resistance governments restore order. Or do you think the Muggles will disarm at some point?”

In the course of a second, Tom exchanged a private, secret look with Hermione, who shook her head almost imperceptibly.

“I doubt it, but it doesn’t matter,” he shot back. “The Americans have long kept their existence secret from the Muggle government, and our partners in the Magical Resistance have severed contact with Muggle authorities. The current situation in the Soviet bloc is troubling, but there is no rational reason for the Muggle Prime Minister to know about us even after it is resolved.”

“In the war, Grindelwald’s forces were targeting Muggles. It could happen again with anti-Muggle vigilantes. Muggles need to know when they are under magical attack,” Weasley blurted out.

Tom’s eyebrows shot up in astonishment. Several of Weasley’s allies emitted low groans. The redhaired man closed his eyes briefly as he realized his mistake.

Tom pounced, determined to expose the error explicitly to the entire Wizengamot. “Why, Mr. Weasley, that sounds as if you think the Statute of Secrecy should be repealed,” he said in mock surprise. He paused to let it sink in before continuing. “Because you see, ordinary Muggles _don’t_ know when they are under magical attack. We tell their Prime Minister, but he _cannot_ do anything—unless he decides to expose our people to his underlings and take action against us. And we’re very fortunate that this hasn’t happened in this country.” He gazed out at the Wizengamot calmly but pointedly before continuing. “I know the origins of this law, Weasley. It was intended to please Muggle-friendly Wizengamot members, but in practical terms it does nothing for Muggles, and in the modern world, it has become _exceedingly_ dangerous for us. It is time that we ended it—and until this body approves a law to do that, I will keep this State of Emergency in effect.”

He stood aside, long robes hugging his chest closely and then billowing away at his waist elegantly as he moved. He cut a very imposing, authoritative figure and he knew it—and had not the slightest hesitation about using it to his advantage.

The Wizengamot dismissed shortly after, with no one bringing other matters to the floor. Hermione found him as he cut wordlessly through the throng of reporters demanding statements. She took his arm, prompting a grateful look on his face at the sight of her. They fled the bedlam and quickly retreated to his office as she prepared to Floo back to her own.

“I’m going to do it immediately,” he said. “Obliviate the Muggles.”

She stood facing him and placed her hands on his shoulders. “I told you I have no objection to it. It makes sense and needs to be done for our safety. But please consider reassuring people about the non-magical families. I’m concerned that they’ll be seen as a security risk in this climate.”

“It _is_ inherently a security risk to assimilate them,” Tom remarked, “but they _are_ Squibs… and they’re under wizarding law concerning Seclusion… and we’re trying to integrate them into our own community more. It’s obviously a completely different matter to tell the Muggle Prime Minister about magic—and usually when magic is threatening Muggles, at that. It’s one of the most patently idiotic policies I can think of, and I’ll remind people of how different these two things are if… a problem develops.”

“And it appears that there may be _wizards_ who have violated Seclusion in the East,” Hermione said with distaste. _“Anyone_ in the wizarding world could betray us.”

“So it seems.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to the information about Wizarding America for the _Fantastic Beasts_ film, the US government doesn't know about its wizarding government, unlike Britain in canon. Of course, I've written that the Soviet states don't know about wizards either. I absolutely think wizards in the Cold War era would be identified and confined/exploited/eliminated if Muggle governments in the most affected nations knew of their existence, so this is an extremely volatile situation. And by the 1950s, Britain is a nuclear power in its own right, one of three—and the other two are unaware of magic. Given the possibilities of undetectable espionage, seizure, and sabotage from wizards, it’s hard for me to accept that the Prime Ministers of the nuclear age could know about the wizarding world and be OK with it, and I think that “The Other Minister” chapter of HBP was a mistake. Even if the Ministry of Magic has a division to protect certain top Muggles from magical attack (and they might, since Shacklebolt was protecting the Muggle PM in that same chapter), there's just no need for the Muggles to know, in my opinion. And I don't see any evidence in the books that the Ministry has employees who protect Muggle war weapons from magical spies or rogue wizards. Maybe JKR just didn't want to hint at something that dark. I will, though.
> 
> My Minister Tom is very well-informed about Muggle geopolitical tension and technological capability, so he certainly wouldn’t want nuclear-armed Muggles to know what wizards could do. And he’d seize any defensible reason to stop “reporting” to the Muggle Prime Minister anyway.


	18. Subversion, Part II: The Harrower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Igor Karkaroff finally has some news for Tom about what is happening in Eastern Europe and Russia, and it’s not good. But Gellert Grindelwald has news that may be even worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, thanks for your interest! I'll attempt not to make you wait this long for the next chapters of this storyline, but I've been very busy with life stuff this month, and next month isn't looking much better. Hopefully it won't be _more_ than three weeks, though.
> 
> You may have noticed that I've slightly edited the spelling of a couple of names. I used an international name list for these names, but I'm told that it apparently has some minor errors or omissions.

Shortly after Hermione returned to work, Tom’s Floo alert flashed again. Igor Karkaroff, the Russian leader, had information.

Tom was relieved that Hermione was not there for Karkaroff’s meeting. She distrusted the man based on a pattern of self-serving actions he would have taken in the alternate timeline. Tom could not help put point out to her how unfair it was to judge Karkaroff for the deeds of his alternate life while actually sharing a bed with Tom. She understood the logic of it; that much was obvious, but she still got a pinched look on her face whenever the goateed man appeared in the fireplace when she was present.

Tom wondered briefly why Karkaroff hadn’t asked to speak to Lynch, the Head of Magical Resistance Liaison. Whatever he had to say must be very serious indeed if he felt that he needed to say it directly to the Minister, and in person.

“Karkaroff,” Tom said smoothly when the wizard’s face appeared in the flames. “I’m pleased to hear from you.”

Karkaroff grimaced. “You will not be so pleased when you hear what I have to say. I want you to understand that I had to find a very secret location to tell you this.” He gazed back at Tom, apparently wanting an acknowledgment of the effort.

Tom nodded, trying to hide his impatience. “Yes, I am sure it must be very difficult for you, especially with the wizard-on-wizard killings. Not a situation conducive to trust among your people,” he could not resist saying. Before Karkaroff could respond to the subtle jibe, Tom continued. “It’s hard, and we want to do anything we can to make your job easier.”

This seemed to mollify Karkaroff. “It is indeed. I have had to be very careful of my own officers, too.” He paused again, seemingly waiting.

“I understand that too, believe me,” Tom replied. Karkaroff was trying to get something out of him, and Tom was starting to think it was real information he wanted rather than an expression of sympathy for Karkaroff’s own troubles. Information about _what,_ Tom could not guess, but he was not going to give this man anything. Even allies might seek to undermine a political leader.

“I am determined that they must be of good stock, you understand.” Karkaroff almost spat the words, evidently displeased with Tom’s circumspection.

“You mean—blood?” Yes, it was a good thing Hermione was not here to listen to this, Tom thought. She was concerned that there would be prejudice against wizards with non-magical families in Britain because of the security risk; if Karkaroff was implying what Tom thought he was, then that was already happening in Russia, where Secrecy might have been breached.

Well, it wasn’t Britain’s problem. Tom met Karkaroff’s eyes with his own. “You must do what your situation requires, of course.”

Karkaroff gazed out of the flames speculatively. “Minister Riddle, you are quite correct that there is a Soviet agent behind the killings of wizards by Muggles. I do not know what your other contacts in the Resistance governments have told you, but every resistance leader in the bloc knows this fact and even the identity of the agent.”

 _What?_ Could that be true? Could the Krums and Koroleva have lied to him about what they knew, or was Karkaroff mistaken in his assumption? Tom tried to keep his face emotionless. He forced skepticism onto his features. “You know who it is? Then why don’t you do something about it?”

Karkaroff backtracked. “I misspoke. The agent is known to the heads of the resistance movement, but to few others, and none actually know his real name. We know this person only as the ‘Harrower.’”

Tom stared back at the Russian. “The ‘Harrower,’” he repeated skeptically. “So you mean that you’ve deduced that there is a defector, and you’ve just given that name to the agent because of what he’s done to your community? Or has the person actually called himself that?” He was rapidly becoming impatient with this. It seemed that Karkaroff was engaging in theatrics, trying to make his “information” seem more important than it actually was, and he actually had no idea who the agent _really_ was.

Karkaroff seemed to realize Tom’s disappointment and disdain. “Minister Riddle,” he snapped, “the Harrower is the brother of a Mud—Muggle-born wizard who was envious of his brother’s magical talent. He turned to the Soviet state to inform it of the existence of magic and lead a secret squad of Muggle KGB to hunt us down.”

 _Oh, shit,_ Tom thought. He felt like a balloon that was deflating. He sat back in his chair and stared blankly at the green head in the fireplace. “You know this? Then how do you not know what his real name is?”

“His division is secret!” Karkaroff exclaimed. “He changed his identity! The name he was born with, this person does not exist in Muggle records now. We don’t know where in the vast, filthy Muggle Kremlin he works—or where his base is in this city, for that matter.”

 _Great,_ Tom thought. _Just great._ A secret Squib agent hidden behind a new identity in the secretive Soviet apparatus, using the Muggles’ vast machine to kill off wizards. Even if the Western allies and Eastern rebels could put an end to that, Wizarding Secrecy had still definitely been breached, and if the information about _who_ breached it got out, the international political consequences would be atrocious. Tom’s own faction had built its power in part by enfranchising Squibs and giving the designation to people who had a magical child or sibling and therefore had some magical ancestry themselves. The hammer would fall hardest on the Nationalists as a result. It might even sweep the Isolationists to power. Bloody Caspar Crouch had almost made it….

Unless Karkaroff had something else to report, there was nothing more to be gained in this meeting, and Tom felt that he was dangerously close to losing his calm façade. That would be disastrous to do in front of a foreign dignitary. He turned his gaze back to the fireplace. “I see,” he said tonelessly. “Thank you for telling me this. Is there anything else you need to tell me?”

“No, that is all I have to report.”

They closed the Floo connection, and Tom slumped in the Ministerial chair. His head was suddenly pounding with a tension headache. He remembered the bottle of firewhisky in his side cabinet. If ever there were a time for it, that time was now. Not even bothering to get up, he summoned it and magically poured himself a double shot.

Halfway through the drink, he remembered something else Karkaroff had told him: Every rebel leader supposedly knew about the “Harrower.” If that was true, and Karkaroff wasn’t just assuming it—or lying in order to undermine Tom’s trust in other leaders—then it meant the Krums and Koroleva had outright lied to him.

Tom did not know what to do about it. He could confront them with Karkaroff’s information, but if he insinuated that they had withheld it from him, that would only antagonize them, whether they had known or not. And if they _had_ withheld it, they might still lie about having known about it when he did confront them. Whom would he believe then, Karkaroff or the others? Could they have had a valid reason to keep the information from him?

 _I suppose they have a right to keep their own national secrets,_ he mused, _but if they don’t trust their powerful allies with important information, they’ll have a harder time solving the problem._

He suddenly thought about Grindelwald, the one top contact from whom he had not yet heard back. Grindelwald owed him big. He surely wouldn’t deceive Tom about this—but Tom decided that he needed to tell Grindelwald the latest news from Karkaroff first, just to be sure. That way, when Grindelwald did get in touch with Tom, he would have to address Karkaroff’s intelligence.

Tom took out a new piece of fireproof paper and began to compose a second letter to “Geryk Baginski,” leader of the Polish Magical Opposition.

* * *

“What are you worried about, Dad?”

Tom looked up from the batch of paperwork that he was reading in the family room. It was not only about the Soviet crisis. On the domestic front, the Ministry was engaged in a fierce hunt for Fenrir Greyback. This was important to Hermione, who wanted the beast imprisoned before he could infect someone she had known who would be born in about a year. Tom wanted him gone too. Even with the Wolfsbane Law, there was still prejudice against werewolves, and Tom could not particularly fault the wizarding public for it. But no one— _no one—_ would hurt the prospects of any more magical children in the wizarding world, not on his watch. He rather hoped that the officials who caught Greyback would be forced to kill rather than take the werewolf alive. At the moment, Magical Law Enforcement was leading that hunt, but Tom was very tempted to transfer the case to the Aurors, who now served in the Office of the Minister. Otherwise Caspar Crouch would try to take credit when the werewolf was found, and Tom had enough political problems without that.

The _Daily Prophet_ still sniped at him, even though the Crouch shadow candidacy that had weakened his standing had ended several months ago. In a bit of obnoxious self-obsession, the opinion writers for the _Prophet—_ or, rather, those who _openly_ wrote opinion pieces, instead of pretending they reported facts—were even commenting now on the fact that the press _was_ taking swipes at the Minister. “Press Has Finally Realized Minister Riddle Is Mortal!” crowed one editorial about the spate of media criticism. Tom had thrown that edition into the fire with a snarl of rage. It was as if the title had been calculated to set him off: the implication that these commentators were his equals, the fact that he _was_ deathless, the awful reminder that Hermione, his Hermione, wasn’t….

His thoughts returned to the present. He gazed up at Madeline, who was seated across the room at a table with Virgil, playing a game of Gobstones (and losing, it appeared).

“It’s just work,” Tom assured his children. “There’s always something to be done.”

“There’s an Emergency,” Madeline said solemnly. “We’ve heard about it.”

Virgil looked up from his winning game and nodded, dark eyes wide with concern. “It’s scary.”

“It has to do with something that’s happening in another country, not here. You’re safe here,” he said emphatically. “I had to say that in order to stop talking to the Muggle Minister about magical business. That’s all it is.”

They returned to their game, and Hermione, who was holding a sleeping baby Cynthia, raised an eyebrow silently at him. It didn’t bother him. He hadn’t actually lied to the children, but they did not need to know just how dangerous the Soviet bloc situation actually was for the magical community. They were too young to be trusted to keep their mouths shut, and after all, they were _children._ Why scare them? No one else but his security team knew about the situation, and he intended to keep it that way.

Later that night, in bed, he told Hermione about Karkaroff’s report. When he got to the part about the other Resistance leaders supposedly knowing about the “Harrower” but not telling him, her eyes narrowed and a pinched look came over her face.

“I wouldn’t believe him over the others,” she said tautly.

“I don’t. I’m gathering more information from Gellert first. But I don’t _dis_ believe him yet.”

“I wouldn’t even be sure that this ‘Harrower’ really is a Squib. He might have made that up.”

Tom gazed at her. “Hermione, I know we don’t agree on this, but you’re not being fair to him. There’s no evidence he’s lying about that.”

“He’s obviously prejudiced.”

“Everyone is prejudiced about something. That doesn’t mean he’s lying.”

“I do not trust Igor Karkaroff,” she said stubbornly.

“I know you don’t, but you shouldn’t judge him based on that old timeline.”

She scowled. “Very well, and there’s nothing either of us can do about it—Russian wizards did pick him as their leader—but be careful with him. You have other people in the East that you can talk to. Don’t just listen to him.”

“I’m not. As I said, I’m going to see what Gellert has to say. And I’ll always keep you informed of the latest updates.”

* * *

_The next day._

A repeat knock sounded on the door to Tom’s private office, jolting him away from his current work.

“Director Lynch, Office of Magical Resistance Liaison,” said the pleasant, soothing magical voice, announcing the visitor. Tom sighed, steeling himself for yet more questions or bad news, and admitted Lynch. He did not have to wait long.

A profoundly grim look filled the Irishman’s face as he crossed the room. He reached Tom’s desk and, without a word, put a scroll of paper before the Minister. Tom unrolled it. His eyes widened.

A black-and-white wizarding photograph filled most of the paper. It was grainy, but there was no mistaking what it depicted: a dead body, brutally tortured, with Cyrillic letters carved into the back.

“Who is this?” Tom asked.

“Karkaroff’s number one deputy,” Lynch said. He turned the paper over, revealing a brief message scrawled in broken English. “We don’t know exactly who sent it, except that it probably was not Karkaroff. This isn’t like his handwriting, and his command of English is better than this.” Lynch flipped the scroll back over to the side with the unpleasant photograph.

“That’s bizarre,” Tom said. “I haven’t heard from Karkaroff himself about this. Is there any indication that he was killed, or captured—or missing?”

“As best we can tell, he’s missing. He hasn’t responded to our messages to his personal Floo.”

Tom groaned. “That’s just perfect. Who heads the Russian Resistance now?”

“We don’t know. The concern we have in the office is that they’re scattered after this and it’s everyone for themselves.”

Tom pointed to the carvings on the dead man’s back. “What does this say? Have your people translated it yet?”

Lynch grimaced. “It’s a threat to several heads of government in the West. You, Dietzsch in West Germany, the Swedish Minister, and the Dutch Minister.”

“A specific threat?”

“No, a general death threat.”

Tom rubbed his temples. “I see.” He thought quickly about the Ministers in question. “You know, Lynch, I’m pretty sure that Sjodin is a half-blood… isn’t she?”

Lynch’s grimace deepened. “Yes, Minister, you got there much quicker than my people did. All of the Ministers in that grim list are half-bloods.”

Tom glowered at the scroll. “If that’s significant—and it probably is—then it complicates things. Karkaroff told me in the last briefing I had from him that his officers were all ‘of good stock.’ My first guess about this would’ve been that someone in the Resistance who doesn’t like that did this, and carved this message into this fellow because they assumed the West was backing Karkaroff’s internal policies… but then why target the half-blood Ministers?”

Lynch considered. “If that’s true, and that was what the killer was thinking, then maybe they thought that it was less defensible for half-bloods to back that kind of policy.” He hesitated. “The thing is, Minister, this poor fellow was a half-blood himself. We looked into it.”

Tom sighed. “Maybe the murderer didn’t know that. I don’t know.” He gazed at Lynch. “Based on your office’s investigation so far, is there any indication that this is something other than another internal fight? They’ve been killing each other throughout the bloc, assuming that someone or other was a traitor. Is there any reason to think this is something other than that?”

“Nothing so far, Minister. But again, we can’t get in contact with the Russians yet. The only ones with Floo connections are Karkaroff and his top officers, because of the magical curtain, and so this came to us via owl.”

“I see. In that case, keep me informed whenever you do find anything out.”

* * *

“You cannot trust Igor Karkaroff,” Hermione repeated that evening after the children were put to bed. “Everything about this smells wrong to me. It doesn’t make sense. If Karkaroff has sparked a civil war in the Russian Resistance about blood purity, putting purebloods in higher ranks, then why would the half-bloods kill a _half-blood_ officer?”

“They might if they saw him as a traitor to their ‘kind’ by accepting Karkaroff’s promotion,” Tom replied.

“That’s irrational.”

“Yes, but people _are_ irrational.”

“It still doesn’t fit,” she said. “A group of half-bloods in the Russian Resistance torture and kill a half-blood officer, leaving a message _specifically_ against half-blood Western Ministers for Magic, fragmenting the Resistance, and sending its leadership into hiding? And whoever sent that photograph managed to find an owl to send a message to the West, but no one in the official leadership can tell us about an internal war? Karkaroff has Floo outlets in his own house!”

“I don’t know if Karkaroff is even alive. If they had an internal revolt—and if you’ll remember, Hermione, we were concerned that that might happen over the murders by Muggles—they might have killed him.”

“Then why wouldn’t they have boasted of that? If it’s a successful coup, they would be trying to get us to recognize the new leader, not sending anonymous messages to threaten us. We have no say in how they operate. We would have to either acknowledge the coup and work with the new people, or cut them off, which would risk Secrecy. They have the upper hand; we _have_ to maintain relations with them, and we couldn’t reverse an internal coup. I don’t think there’s been one at all. I think Karkaroff is alive in his house. It fits with his behavior in the other timeline.”

Tom heaved a huge sigh. “Hermione, do my actions ‘fit with my behavior in the other timeline’?”

She stared back at him. “Not the worst things, by any means, but there are more similarities than you might think. You want power, immortality on earth, and wizarding supremacy. I think the fundamentals of a person stay the same unless they’re changed _very_ early in life.”

He scowled briefly. “Fine—what do you think is going on, then? What’s your theory?”

“I don’t think you can rule out a false flag.”

He rolled his eyes. “Hermione—”

“No, you _listen_ to me, Tom Riddle!” she exclaimed. _“Someone_ should be in a position to send an official update to us. If Karkaroff is still alive, he should be able to do so, even to send a ‘distress call’ from his home and tell us about a coup attempt. If he’s been overthrown, the coup leaders should be sending us notifications of that fact. If fighting is ongoing and no one is in charge, then why would someone take the time to send _that_ message to us, taking the trouble to find an owl, but no one could manage to tell us that there is a civil war going on? This does not work.”

Tom rubbed his forehead. That made sense—altogether too much sense. “You may be right,” he admitted.

She seemed vaguely satisfied by that admission.

“You know… you and I may need to investigate this personally,” he added.

She frowned. “I really hope not.”

* * *

_Two days later._

When Geryk Baginski— _née_ Gellert Grindelwald—sent a response letter to Tom’s office Floo, he specifically recommended that Hermione hear what he had to say as well. The letter contained a rather ominous warning and an additional request:

 

 _What I have to say is best communicated in person, because I’m sure that you will have many questions, and it would be best if this meeting could take place at a completely private location,_ Grindelwald wrote. _It is not that I question the security of your Ministerial office, but I have good reason to believe that there is a person who has the ear of both Igor Karkaroff and certain top officials in the Ministry._

 

 _Abraxas Malfoy,_ Tom thought instantly when he read that. This just got better and better. He thought it over, briefly considering his own house, before deciding against that. It was the private sanctum of his family, and he did not want to bring a foreign agent—even one on his side—into it on principle. He smirked as another place instantly occurred to him. It was appropriate. Hermione wouldn’t like it, but it was _absolutely_ secure. He knew that because he was the only person with the power to bring guests under the wards protecting it—or even to see it.

Later that afternoon, Grindelwald stepped through the Floo connection in Tom’s office, as he and Hermione waited. Without a single word, they linked hands, Tom in the middle, and Disapparated to the outskirts of Little Hangleton.

A battered old door faced them, the skeleton of a long-dead snake dangling off a nail. Hermione grimaced in distaste, and even Grindelwald seemed taken aback. A smug smirk adorning his face, Tom opened the door and ushered them inside.

Although dust covered the furniture and floor, the roof was still secure. Powerful magic wards around the Gaunt house made everyone’s hairs stand on end.

“What is this place?” Grindelwald burst out.

“The illustrious House of Gaunt. This is where my mother grew up.”

Hermione was trying to avoid touching anything. This place was shadowy, utterly silent, and although Tom had made sure to ward it against ghosts, it seemed almost haunted with the ill will and misery of those who had lived here.

“I… see.” Grindelwald had no response to that. “Was this… really the only option?”

Tom raised an eyebrow in challenge. “I don’t bring international espionage business into my home.” He smirked again. “There _is_ a place that _might_ be as secure as this, and definitely has more grandeur, but the problem is that it’s in Hogwarts.”

 _You are being extremely careless,_ Hermione thought, meeting his eyes with her own in the hope that he would read the thought. He did, and the smirk fled his face at once.

“I see,” Grindelwald said again. “Well. This is secure—I can tell by the wards that you have—so I suppose I had best get to business.” He gazed around. “Are those chairs—stable?”

Tom went over to the chairs in question, three chairs around a table. _Marvolo, Merope, and Morfin,_ he thought as he magically swept them clean of dust. “They are sound, yes.” He sat down in the most ornate chair—not that any of them were very elegant—which he assumed must have been used by Marvolo Gaunt.

Grindelwald examined the others, one with its back carved up with swearwords in Parseltongue and childish drawings of snakes. This chair seemed heavier and was definitely larger than the third, so he sat there, leaving Merope Gaunt’s chair for Hermione. Wincing, she took her seat at the table.

Tom waved his wand, drawing out three rocks glasses and a bottle of Ogden’s from his briefcase. “I _can_ make this a little more hospitable,” he drawled, pouring firewhisky into two of the glasses. He raised a brow questioningly at Hermione, who shook her head firmly in the negative. She was still nursing Cynthia. Tom instead filled her glass with water.

“Well,” Grindelwald began, “where shall I begin? Perhaps I should let you ask questions first.”

Tom took out the notes he had made for the meeting and examined them. “As you wish,” he said briefly. “Let me see… ah, better ask about the most recent developments first. To your knowledge, _is_ there a coup or civil war in St. Petersburg?”

Grindelwald shook his head. “Definitely not a coup. If by ‘civil war’ you mean open violent conflict, there is none of that either. Is that your people’s analysis?”

Tom glanced briefly at Hermione, seeking nonverbal permission and quickly getting it. “It seems to be the analysis of most of them, but Hermione thinks it could be a false flag instead. The torture and murder of Karkaroff’s late deputy,” he clarified.

Grindelwald regarded Hermione with interest. “That’s a clever thought,” he said enigmatically.

“Karkaroff is alive, then?”

“Unless he died just this morning, then yes, he’s alive.” Grindelwald gazed between them. “This is why I wanted the meeting to be private. I don’t know how much power that your Ministry’s Floo regulation office has over communications within your own outlet—if someone could eavesdrop on conversations held through it, or plant magical recording devices in your office—but I didn’t want to risk it. Karkaroff and his replacement lieutenant have connections with someone in your country with whom you’ve had dealings before, fairly recently in fact, and not of a positive sort.”

“Abraxas Malfoy?”

Grindelwald nodded. “Malfoy has connections in the blood-purity movement throughout Europe.”

“That doesn’t surprise me at all,” Hermione said tautly. “Who is this new lieutenant of Karkaroff’s, then?”

“A violent man named Antonin Dolohov,” Grindelwald said, his lip curling.

Hermione’s eyes popped, and blood drained from her face.

“This name means something to you,” Grindelwald observed curiously.

She felt Tom’s hand on her thigh under the table. She glanced quickly at him, finding some comfort in his encouraging look. “Yes,” she answered Grindelwald. “As you know… I was a time-traveler.”

“It’s easy to forget, but yes, I remember when your husband told me about that.”

“Well… Dolohov was a bad actor in the timeline that I left. Definitely a blood-purity supporter and a violent person.”

Tom squeezed her thigh again.

“Interesting,” Grindelwald remarked. “You know, Mrs. Riddle, you might consider making notes of differences and similarities that you discover throughout the course of your life. It would be a fascinating academic exercise… perhaps, though, it would be best to keep it private during your lifetime and let others examine it—after.”

“Right,” Tom said abruptly, ending that line of discussion at once. Hermione knew why; she recognized the faint choke in his words. “We have limited time here, and I do have another question first. This ‘Harrower’ that Karkaroff mentioned to me—this supposed Squib who has aligned with the Soviets, that all the other Resistance leaders know about, according to him. Is any of that true?”

Grindelwald cracked his knuckles. “There is a person who has encouraged the resistance movements to call him ‘Harrower’… to cultivate fear, I suppose. There is no reason to think, as Karkaroff claims, that it’s a Squib—”

“Why do you say that?” Tom interrupted.

“I will explain in a minute, but there is no reason to think it’s a Squib, and it is absolutely false that every leader in the East knows about it. Some of us do and some don’t. We are a not a monolith, Minister Riddle,” he said wryly. “And especially since these killings started, we have not always shared information with each other. The Krums seem to have vanished off the map, and most of the Bulgarians with them.” He paused. “And I do not know _what_ Koroleva is up to.”

“Do you not trust her?” Tom asked.

“I have no reason not to trust her,” Grindelwald assured him at once, “but she is holding information, I think. I am not entirely sure that the problems in Ukraine are directly connected to the ones in Russia.”

Hermione brought out notes of her own and looked over them. “By Muggle weapons, two mass murders in Russia, eight individual ones in Ukraine near Russia, and one apiece in Poland, Bulgaria, and Romania. These may be the work of this Harrower or his agents, I assume?”

Grindelwald nodded.

“By magic, three mass murders in Russia, one mass murder in Poland, one in Ukraine—which has apparently been solved—”

“The one in Poland has also been solved,” Grindelwald put in. “It was a vigilante with mistaken information.”

Hermione marked that on her list. “Assorted individual magical murders all over, most recently this late deputy, who was replaced with… Dolohov. Disappearances in Ukraine, most of which involve children.” She glanced at Grindelwald. “You don’t think those are related?”

“There have not been disappearances anywhere else, even Russia, which seems to be the first ‘hot spot,’ and Koroleva has indicated to me that she suspects a specific internal problem behind the disappearances. She won’t tell me much, but I think that is because she is investigating the situation in her country.” He gazed at the Riddles. “I have more to say about Antonin Dolohov.”

“Then please do,” Tom said.

“This is purely circumstantial, but… I would like to note that _none_ of these killings began until he joined the Russian Resistance.”

“Wait,” Tom said. “He’s _that_ recently joined, and yet he’s already become Karkaroff’s deputy? After the bizarre murder of the previous deputy?” His tone was suspicious rather than questioning.

Grindelwald smiled grimly. “I think your wife”—he nodded at Hermione—“was more on track with her theory about _that_ murder than any of your Ministry bureaucrats. But note my first point as well: The killings did not start until he joined the Russian Resistance and, through it, presumably learned who the wizards were.”

Tom and Hermione stared back at him in disgust and disbelief. “You’re implying… that _Dolohov_ is the Harrower?” Tom asked. “And that he’s fed false information to Karkaroff about a Squib?”

“I cannot vouch for Karkaroff. That may well be true. It may also be that Karkaroff will not see what he does not _want_ to see.”

“Is there a chance that Karkaroff could be complicit?”

“I do not know. He was in the Russian Resistance for a long time before the killings started.”

“In the alternate timeline, he relied on others to do things that he didn’t have the nerve to do,” Hermione said tightly.

“Perhaps so, but that is the _alternate_ timeline, as you say,” Grindelwald pointed out. “I cannot speak for Karkaroff, but I do think Dolohov is a grave threat and may be behind everything in Russia—and possibly all the killings by Muggles everywhere, given the extent of the Muggle KGB. And there is another fact that I have not yet shared with you, or anyone else, because I wanted to examine it myself before I did.” He smiled grimly. “Through my own research into genealogical records, I have discovered that the Russian wizards killed by Muggles are half-blood or Squib-born, while the ones killed by wizards are of all backgrounds—which would make sense if, as we all believe, people are lashing out at each other in distrust. The purebloods who have died were all killed by magic.”

Tom and Hermione processed that. “So… the Harrower, who you think is Dolohov, has been directing the Soviet KGB to kill half-bloods and Squib-borns for the blood purity agenda.” Tom’s voice was edged with ice.

“That is what I fear. I think he must be telling them that the people are spies, or otherwise traitors to the Soviet cause, because I imagine the KGB would find people with our abilities too valuable to kill. Unless they viewed us as a threat,” he added darkly.

Tom slammed his fist down on the Gaunts’ battered table. “The despicable fucking blood-traitor!” he shouted.

“Tom,” Hermione said quietly. “That expression—”

“If that’s what’s happening, what else can you call it?” he exclaimed. “What else can you call a wizard who hands over other wizards and witches—including children—to filthy Muggle death squads, risking the exposure of the entire wizarding world, simply because of their blood?”

For a brief moment, Hermione marveled at the fact that Tom Riddle was saying this.

Grindelwald spoke again. “That said, Minister, it is probably inadvisable for you to use that term in public, given your political position.”

“I haven’t even told the public the full truth of what’s happening,” Tom snapped. He stood up, shoved Marvolo Gaunt’s chair under the table roughly, and stormed around in a small circle. “This is utterly despicable if that’s what it is—and it does make sense of a lot. The big question is whether Igor Karkaroff knew about it. If he was part of it….” Tom’s tone of voice turned very dark as he let the unfinished threat hang in the air. “And if he wasn’t—if he’s hiding in his house, refusing to answer my letters, because he’s afraid of his own deputy, then he should be removed from his position.”

“I agree,” Grindelwald said.

“What about Ukraine?” Hermione asked, trying to keep the discussion about the mystery and the facts rather than allow Tom to hijack it for a rant. “You think that the Harrower may be behind the Muggle-on-wizard killings there.”

“Yes, they were near the Russian border.”

“Is there anything you _do_ know about the disappearances there?”

“I really don’t. My first guess would be that people are disappearing out of fear, but it may not be that. Koroleva is definitely holding something close to her chest, as you say.”

“Do you know anything about the magical ancestry of the people who have disappeared?”

He shook his head. “I have only investigated the Russian victims.”

“Then I’ll look into it,” she said suddenly. “It may be separate in that Dolohov is not directly involved in the disappearances, but they didn’t start to happen until after the killings. Ultimately, it _is_ the same problem.” Her gaze hardened. “And if a wizard has decided to breach Wizarding Secrecy to hostile Muggles to advance his own loathsome agenda, it cannot stand.”

“It won’t,” Tom said, menace in his words.


	19. Subversion, Part III: The Missing Children

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione finds a disturbing pattern with disappearances in Ukraine. She and Tom work out a unified theory of the events in the East—and reluctantly determine that they have to go there to find out the rest of the facts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought about not bringing the forthcoming subject up in these notes, and I kind of hate doing it, but I think I would be remiss if I didn’t.
> 
> In light of recent political developments, I really need to say a few things about this story and this AU. I never meant anything in this fic to be an allegory for anything happening in the real world. I certainly was not drawing an analogy between my Minister Tom’s “wizarding nationalism” and the toxic bigotry that sometimes assumes a form of nationalism. If there were real wizards, they actually _would_ be different from other people in an important innate way. The existence of magic would have profound implications, which I am exploring in this story arc. They would have rational reasons to want a government of, by, and for themselves. This is obviously not the case for racism in the real world… and it’s not the case in the canon Potterverse for blood purity. (My Tom does _personally_ hold Muggles in contempt, but it’s Tom. His _policies_ have been pretty benign toward them.) Please, please remember that when reading this fic: The story is not an allegory for anything in the real world. In fact, I hope more than ever that you can enjoy it as escapist fantasy.
> 
> I understand that despite that big disclaimer, some of you may not want to read even a fantasy story that touches on the kinds of issues that this one does. I am not offended and it’ll be here when and if you are ready to read it again.
> 
> **Regarding the chapter itself** : There are probably more OCs in this chapter than in any other. I hope they work.

“I want the files,” Hermione said determinedly, staring down Connor Lynch.

Lynch glanced at his boss, hoping for a negative. Tom stared back hard, raising a single eyebrow pointedly at Lynch. He gave up.

“I’ll have the names for you promptly,” the director mumbled. He shuffled out of Tom’s office.

At the meeting at the Gaunt house, Hermione had become determined to develop a unified theory of the situation in the East. It seemed increasingly likely that they would need to organize a coalition and send a team of Aurors to help the locals, and Tom was determined not to endanger his Aurors any more than he had to. The sole piece of good news they had learned was that, according to Grindelwald, Dolohov had not _necessarily_ breached Wizarding Secrecy to the KGB. Every other bit of news was terrible, and the facts they _didn’t_ know had the potential to be bad too. Karkaroff’s loyalty was in question, and whatever was happening in Ukraine seemed ominous to Hermione on reflection. She could not explain why so many people would disappear without a trace there but nowhere else, and Grindelwald’s statements about Volodymira Koroleva’s internal investigation did not hint at anything good either. She needed the list of Ukrainians who were unaccounted for.

Shortly, Lynch returned to the Ministerial office with duplicates of the files in question. He handed the folder to Hermione silently, gave Tom a nod, and left the office again.

“What was that about?” she asked him.

“I think some of my people don’t want to cede any ‘territory’ to anyone else,” he replied, frowning slightly.

“I’m on the security team.”

“I think they believe it’s only for the sake of marital peace. They know you’re forthright and strong. I think they’ve expected that you would be satisfied with being ‘included,’ and they’re a bit taken aback that you actually want to do things.”

Hermione sniffed. “That’s too bad for them. They empowered you to make a lot of executive decisions yourself. They shouldn’t complain if you make them.”

Tom smirked. “I’d love to openly appoint you to something—”

She managed a slight smile, but shook her head at the same time. “It’s much better being your partner. I don’t want to be your subordinate, and any Ministry title would mean that I was.”

“You have a point.” Tom glanced at the folder. “What do you expect to find?”

“I don’t have enough information to form a theory,” she admitted. “I just want to look at these people’s background and see if there is a pattern to it. I hope I can develop a theory out of whatever is in this, since Koroleva isn’t sharing information.”

* * *

The library in Tom and Hermione’s town house occupied two levels, with a cutout in the floor on the upper level and a spiral staircase in the middle. It was a grand room, if slightly sinister—like several other rooms in the house. Tom kept copies of magical history and genealogy books, the latter of which Hermione had not particularly loved having around—but now she was glad he had them.

Hermione had to admire his fortitude in tracing his own wizarding family history. This was a tedious process, poring through the lists of names in the Ukrainian missing-persons records and matching them to names in the genealogies. Determining who was pureblood, half-blood, or a descendant of Squibs was even harder. She quickly found herself using a shortcut: If a family name did not appear at all in the genealogy, she assumed that the father, at least, was likely Muggle-born. It was a fudge, she admitted to herself, but it was the best she could do.

And, as she neared the end of the list, she realized it was more than sufficient. The pattern was unmistakable: Every family that had vanished from Ukraine was half-blood. The children who had disappeared were, horrifyingly, often Muggle-born, though not exclusively. The children who had vanished from homes where the parents were found dead were all Muggle-born. Not a single missing child was from a known long-established wizarding family.

Hermione shelved the books and sat down in a crimson chair. She closed her eyes and tried to put everything together.

_Why would the children disappear?_ she thought. _Dolohov has no problem directing—or Imperiusing, who knows?—the Muggles to slaughter entire families in Russia. Why spare “dirty-blooded” children in Ukraine?_

She considered the list again. _These people did not live in east Ukraine,_ she thought. _They were mostly in Kiev or close to it. Could Koroleva’s theory be correct? She thinks that other wizards and witches are kidnapping magical children and fleeing the country. I wish this list told how the non-magical parents were killed. That’s important information. If they died by magic, it would point to her theory, but if Muggle weapons killed them, it indicates a separate Soviet agent based out of Kiev who does want to spare the children—and that is even more ominous than Dolohov’s vile plot._

_The families who are missing have probably left freely. They are included on a list of witches and wizards, after all, so they might be able to Apparate to the boundary of the magical Iron Curtain and then cross normally—or even go to another country behind the curtain._

Hermione opened her eyes. There was not enough information in this list for her to decide which theory about the children was correct. If witches and wizards were kidnapping children—killing their non-magical parents if the parents resisted, presumably—and fleeing the country, that was quite bad enough. It was criminal activity and it had to be stopped. Hermione certainly would not envy Volodymira Koroleva her task in sorting out custody of the children in that scenario, assuming the children could even be found, which was unlikely. But if _Muggles_ were killing the non-magical parents and then spiriting the magical children away, that pointed unambiguously to _another_ wizard—or, at a bare minimum, a Squib—working with the Soviet state for some nefarious purpose, as if Dolohov—and possibly Karkaroff—weren’t enough.

What was happening in St. Petersburg was horrible, but it didn’t _appear_ that it had breached Wizarding Secrecy. What was happening in Kiev had the potential to have done that. Tom had to know about this, she decided. She needed to tell him her findings—and her theories.

For now, though, it had to wait. They had resolved not to upset their children by talking too much about the situation in front of them, so the discussion they would have with each other would need to wait until after Madeline and Virgil were in bed.

* * *

Tom sat on the bed next to her, his chin resting on top of his clapsed hands as he thought. His features were set in a frown.

“That’s not good,” he said. “I had already concluded that the Aurors would have to be deployed—and I hate it, because I wanted to transfer the Greyback case to them—but this is why I brought them into my office, this very type of problem.” He paused for a moment. “I don’t know if there are enough Aurors to divide them between Russia and Ukraine.”

“Are we not going to have any help?”

“I will give this much to the Americans,” he said grudgingly. “They did offer a small reinforcement squad of Aurors, and they would be ready on a moment’s notice.”

“There will have to be local volunteers too, especially in Russia.”

“Oh, absolutely,” he agreed. “I _will not_ leave my Aurors there indefinitely to keep order. That’s the responsibility of the resistance governments themselves.” He raised an eyebrow at her. “There’s one other source of help we’ll have, of course.”

_Grindelwald,_ she thought. “Just him? Or is he bringing people?”

“He can offer his wand and his personal security force—three people, he tells me.”

“It’s good that, after what he did, he’s now trying so hard to _protect_ Seclusion.”

“He saw the error of his ways. It _is_ possible, dear,” Tom drawled.

She understood him. “I’m still not going to trust Karkaroff unless he is exonerated completely in this.”

“Nor am I. At this point I think it’s safe to assume that he _does_ know about it. I still haven’t heard from him. I think you’re right and he’s hiding, either because he has lost control of his own government or because he was part of Dolohov’s conspiracy all along.” He sneered at nothing in particular. “I’m still so disgusted about that. He is the biggest blood-traitor I’ve ever heard of.”

“Tom, I really wish you wouldn’t use that term.”

“Why not?” he challenged. “I’ve said why it fits. We’re under no obligation to speak of these people politely.”

“It began as a pureblood supremacist term, and they use it to refer to other purebloods or half-bloods who don’t agree with all their political views.”

“I know exactly who invented it and why,” he replied. “My intention is to… reassign it. Change its meaning. It’s a powerful term and they shouldn’t get to own it. _Everyone_ with magic has magical ancestors. It’s asinine to divide amongst ourselves when there are Muggles who would see us all enslaved or dead if they knew of our powers, so the real blood-traitors are those who hurt wizards. Wizarding nation, darling.” He gave her a pointed wink.

She looked down. Tom made her uneasy sometimes. The Soviet agent situation was bringing out his anti-Muggle side more than usual, but this was the first time she had heard him use the words “wizarding nation” together in such a deliberate way. It was no longer strictly a descriptive phrase referring to the British wizarding community. A couple of months ago, a small cohort of scholars had written a theoretical treatise about the idea of a global wizarding nation. Their contention was that dividing wizarding governments based on Muggle political boundaries was harmful to wizarding cohesion, wealth, and security. The magical world would do better as a global nation with a sustainable population than as scores of nations each with the population of a small Muggle town, the scholars contended. They were not part of Tom’s personal coterie, and in fact, he had never heard of them before, but he had been enchanted with their utopian idea.

Hermione could not see how it would possibly work. Witches and wizards had their magical identity, but they also had cultural identities that were influenced by the Muggles on the other side of the Seclusion wall. It was obvious at any Quidditch World Cup. Tom himself saw it every time he dealt with foreign Ministers and Presidents. Hermione regarded herself as British; it was important to her, and she knew that this was important to Tom too. The main reason that the idea of “Wizarding Nation” appealed to him was the thought of _himself_ as the leader.

Hermione did not want him to obsess over something that could not happen and would only gain him even more political trouble if he expressed admiration for the idea, but she did not want to fight with him about it. She knew why he was suddenly interested in utopian fantasies: They were a form of escapism from reality. Tom was frustrated with the _Daily Prophet_ and other media, and he was caught in a bind regarding the employment of Caspar Crouch. Crouch’s refusal to resign after the collapse of his bid—and his insistence that he had never actually challenged Tom in the first place—was being billed as a message of contempt, a warning of a future challenge, and an assertion of territory ownership inside the Ministry. Rather than hurting Crouch, however, the _Prophet_ asserted that this breach of protocol was politically harmful to _Tom,_ who, after all, needed cause to fire a Department Head. Evidently the Crouch bid was real to the _Prophet_ when it wanted to argue that his employment hurt Tom, but not real enough for Tom himself to dismiss Crouch for his disrespect. Hermione agreed that this was profoundly unfair. Tom was convinced that Abraxas Malfoy had someone on the editorial board, but whatever the case might be, the situation deeply upset and offended him. She did not want to make it worse by attacking him for seeking escape.

* * *

Tom was surprised the next day when his Floo flashed the message that Igor Karkaroff wished to communicate with him.

“Put him through,” he told the device, eyes wide. What would the man have to say? It had been several days since Tom had last heard anything from him. He had a lot to explain.

The goateed face of the Russian leader appeared in the green flames. Tom scanned Karkaroff for signs of nervousness and did not find anything obvious; if anything, Karkaroff looked overconfident.

“It’s been a while since you last communicated with us,” Tom said without prelude. “We’ve been quite concerned about the situation in your city.”

Karkaroff stared back emotionlessly. “The ‘situation’ has been handled and those responsible for Tamirov’s murder have been brought to justice. I have chosen a new deputy as well.”

“Yes, well, I have heard about your new deputy from my other sources in the East,” Tom said cuttingly. He noted with smug satisfaction that Karkaroff’s eyebrows drew together in a crease of worry. “What was the matter, Igor? Why weren’t you able to communicate with me? My people were wondering if a coup was in progress.”

Karkaroff paused. His silence lasted a moment longer than he needed to, Tom observed.

“I am quite well,” the man said tautly. “I have been busy hunting down the killers—and, of course, I am always trying to find the Harrower. He is remarkably clever for a Squib.”

Tom smiled. It was insincere, but he knew how to fake it. “Yes—about that. I have been in talks with the Polish, and with the Americans, and they have agreed to send some Aurors to your people’s aid.” _Not yours, but your people’s._ “I too am willing to release some of my Aurors to assist your people in the hunt.”

Karkaroff beamed. “That would be _most_ appreciated, Minister! We need all the help we can get. Koroleva won’t do anything. It’s disgusting, if you ask me—our nearest neighbor, with such long-standing ties to Russia—she really ought to join her government with ours, but instead she has taken to keeping all her information to herself.”

“She has the right to conduct her government as she sees fit, as do you,” Tom said smoothly. “I understand that she is intensely investigating the disappearances in her country. Since you were unable to communicate with me in the midst of _your_ investigations”—Tom paused pointedly—“surely you can understand her situation.”

Karkaroff gazed back wordlessly.

“We need to plan the incursion,” Tom said. “Will you be able to offer help from your ranks?”

Karkaroff nodded. “I can volunteer about a dozen of my own Aurors….”

They began to discuss strategy, tactics, and timing. Tom made a mental note to tell Grindelwald of the plan—and to possibly expect a trap. Karkaroff seemed entirely too eager, in his opinion, for the help of the foreign Aurors. Probably his team would be hand-picked loyalists at best… and if Karkaroff had lost control of his own organization to Dolohov and was only a figurehead, the Aurors might even be Dolohov’s people. Either way, they were not to be trusted if Dolohov himself was indeed the Harrower. Besides, the mere fact that Karkaroff was sticking with his Squib story was suspicious to Tom. If it came to a choice between believing Hermione or believing Igor Karkaroff, Karkaroff didn’t stand a chance.

Tom considered the Chief Auror, Anne-Claire Abbott. She was not one of Tom’s personal cronies, but a career civil servant who was basically sympathetic to Tom’s political faction. When Tom had moved the Aurors to the Office of the Minister, she had been pleased to report directly to the Minister for Magic, viewing it as a promotion. She was not part of his security team, but she would need to be brought into the loop now. The Aurors would need to know about Karkaroff’s possible trap.

* * *

Hermione was not ecstatic to learn of the planned magical combat operation in Russia that evening.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” she said. “If _any_ Muggles learn about this, you’re not only looking at the exposure of magic—you’re possibly talking about nuclear war.”

“Hermione—”

“And even if that didn’t happen, the Muggles would target us. _Us._ Britain and America are close allies, and the Soviets would take it as an attack. American Muggles don’t even _know_ about the magical government in that country, and now the British Prime Minister doesn’t either anymore. Magical people could be _exterminated_ if the Muggles think our battles might cause a nuclear war. If the Soviets find out about this operation—”

“They won’t,” Tom said curtly. “I know what’s at stake. But if we _don’t_ act, eventually Muggles will figure it out anyway. They may already know in Ukraine, you tell me.”

She winced.

“There you have it, then. As soon as they learned about us, the Soviets would search for other wizards in their own territory, and it would get out. Muggle espionage would discover it, and we’d be hunted all over the world anyway. These lunatics are playing with fire. We have to end this _now.”_ He embraced her tightly. “We are _magical._ We can do this. The traitors will be killed, and any Muggles who knew about it will forget.”

Hermione hesitated as they broke apart. She really felt that a separate investigation should take place in Kiev, and perhaps—

“I think that maybe I should lead a separate group of Aurors in Ukraine,” she said. Tom’s eyebrows shot up, but she continued. “It sounds as if Koroleva needs all the help she can get, and there _is_ something going on. If Muggles are behind the child abductions and murders of their non-magical family members, then there probably actually _is_ someone like Karkaroff’s ‘Squib Harrower’ operating in Kiev.” She paused. “It did not take me that long to determine the pattern in the ancestry of the children. Does Koroleva not have access to genealogies?”

“I couldn’t say,” he replied. “Her country was part of Russia for a long time in the Muggle world, and it’s possible that the Russian wizards acted just like Russian Muggles toward them.”

“Yes,” she mused, “I could see that books with information about Ukrainian wizarding families might be just a _little_ too nationalistic for their ‘overlords.’” She straightened. “In that case, I definitely think that a few of our Aurors should go, and I should go along with them to assist Koroleva.”

Tom looked away, clearly not wanting to meet her eyes. She noticed.

“What’s the problem?”

He glanced sheepishly at her. “First of all, I’m not going to tell you what you may or may not do.”

Her eyebrows narrowed. _“That’s_ an inauspicious beginning—”

“I will be honest with you, Hermione. I wish you wouldn’t go into that mess. It sounds dangerous, and you don’t know what the danger actually is.”

“It would be a fact-finding mission to consult with Volodymira Koroleva and offer her the assistance of some of our Aurors. I myself shouldn’t be in any danger.”

“I thought you would say that,” he said with a grimace, “and as I said at the first, I know better than to try to tell you what to do.”

“Learned from the ‘Wizarding Renaissance’ at last, did you?” she said tartly.

He stared back levelly, not conceding the point, but not disputing it either. She met his stare with her own, refusing to break her gaze.

He looked away first. “It’s probably best if we do this at the same time. Obviously the children cannot come. I’ll ask the Rosiers to take care of them,” he mused.

Hermione stifled a scowl at that. Rosier was firmly under Tom’s control and had been for years. He was on Tom’s side in politics and shared most of Tom’s views, but he had just enough residual blood-purity elitism that she didn’t want her children exposed to it in close quarters at such young ages. What other options were there, though? They did not have close friends, either of them—just casual friends from work. Hermione knew that Tom would not want their children in the care of Catriona Dagworth and her werewolf girlfriend, even though the woman was faithfully taking Wolfsbane Potion. Idly her thoughts followed that trail—and the alternate timeline. Fenrir Greyback was still at large. Remus Lupin had not yet been born, but he would be in about a year. Hermione really did not want him to be bitten this time.

“After we get back, you should direct the Aurors to find Greyback,” she remarked. “It should be their first priority after this.”

“It will be.” He paused. “Hermione, I wish you would reconsider going to Kiev.”

“I’m going, Tom. I need to do this. These are _children._ Children like… us.” Her voice broke.

He sighed. “Then if you really insist upon going, I’ll send some Aurors with you. But I wish you would stay behind with the children.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I hope it’s not because I’m female.”

He looked hurt at that. “Of course it’s not. It really is just because you don’t know what is out there. I at least have an idea of what I’m Apparating into, and I know to regard Karkaroff and his team with distrust. You don’t actually know what’s happening there. It may _look_ like a missing persons mystery, but you _don’t know_ what the hidden dangers are. You could be killed. I can’t—the thought of that—” He broke off. “I’ll send some Aurors, and they will be instructed to take that curse for you if it should become necessary… but it’s not absolute protection against it. Not like I have. I wish you’d….” He trailed off, looking very upset.

That allusion no longer offended Hermione. She knew why he said it, and she felt bad for him. She drew close and hugged him. “I’ll be careful,” she promised.

* * *

Crossing the magical Iron Curtain was not so difficult at all. All that was necessary was to Apparate—or otherwise travel magically—to a site close to the boundary, cross by normal means, and then travel magically within the cordoned region. Tom had coordinated Portkeys to St. Petersburg and Kiev through Gellert Grindelwald, who was waiting for them as they and their troops of Aurors crossed over. Tom had put Chief Auror Abbott in Hermione’s team, after a bit of thought.

“When you are with her, you will follow her instructions as if they were mine,” he had ordered the Aurors who would go with Hermione. He had paused. “That said, don’t let her be alone. Your first task is to protect her.”

Abbott did not want to point out to the Minister that if Hermione demanded to be alone, the orders would be in conflict, and Hermione might defy the Aurors anyway. She hoped it wouldn’t come up.

After they crossed the Curtain, Tom Portkeyed away from the border with the Polish leader, his segment of the British Aurors, and the few Americans who had come. Hermione strode forward in his place, assuming the head position of the group. She turned and handed the Portkey to Kiev to her Aurors. They took hold at once, and Hermione activated it.

Once the whirling, nauseating sensation had ended, she pocketed the Portkey and gazed around.

_This place is grim._ It was the first thought to cross her mind. This must be a Sovietized part of the city; grey brutalist buildings filled the landscape, interspersed occasionally with unused Muggle children’s play equipment that had a decidedly creepy affect.

Hermione knew, nonetheless, where to go. She led the Aurors to the door of a particular building, which appeared to bystanders to be a state warehouse. It bore a bright blue magical mark on one corner that would be invisible to Muggles. The air around them almost crackled with magic.

“She shouldn’t make us wait long,” Hermione assured the Aurors—a second before the door opened before them. They walked inside.

Inside, the building was far less miserable than its exterior or neighborhood. Magic, at least, had made it habitable. Instead of being a large, cluttered space, it had dividing walls to demarcate rooms inside. Hermione and the Aurors found themselves in a foyer with several doors visible. Moving paintings lined the walls, all painted a bit differently from the Western styles that were so familiar in wizarding art to Hermione—a bit more Slavic, perhaps. The floor was bare wood, and the furniture in the foyer was of a very old style, but it indicated that this was not another cold Soviet installation. This was a place where people lived.

A witch swept into the foyer. “Mrs. Minister,” she said courteously to Hermione. “I am Volodymira Koroleva. It is a pleasure to finally meet you in person.”

Hermione blushed faintly. “The pleasure is mine. Please call me Hermione.”

Koroleva nodded. “And these are the Aurors. It is a good thing that you have come,” she said to Abbott and the other Aurors. “Your timing is very fortuitous, and I fear that you will be needed. With the aid that you graciously provided… Hermione”—it was clearly awkward for her to speak to Hermione on a first-name basis—“and you were correct that I do not have access to books of family names—I have finally concluded my investigations.” She gazed at the group, counting heads for a moment. “Let us all come to my council room. I can explain there what we face.”

The council room was a medium-sized room off the hallway. It appeared that it might sometimes be used as a dining room. Koroleva sat down, Hermione sat next to her, and the Aurors clustered around the two leaders.

Koroleva began without preamble. “I will not lie to you,” she said seriously. “My findings are grave. My investigation point began with the disappearance of one of the officials of my Resistance government, a witch named Verochka Andropova. She is not of magical ancestry—and I say this, this is relevant, only because of the information that you provided to me about the family background of the missing children,” she said to Hermione.

Hermione began to develop a bad feeling in her stomach. “You say ‘she _is_ not of magical ancestry.’ She is alive, then? Definitely?”

“Oh, yes,” Koroleva said grimly. “She is alive, and now I know where she is. You see, I have concluded that my first guess was mistaken. The magical families who all vanished did not leave the country to seek safety. Instead, the parents have joined with her.”

Hermione stared at the woman. “Joined with her? What is she doing, forming an alternate resistance government?”

“If only it were that benign,” Koroleva lamented.

“Then what—”

“I suppose I should be blunt. Andropova and her allies have betrayed Wizarding Seclusion to the Soviet government.”

_Oh, God, not another one,_ Hermione thought, closing her eyes for a moment. “Are you _sure?”_ she asked desperately. “The Russian agent who is responsible for all this fear, all the killings of your people in the east of your country, apparently has not actually breached Secrecy to the Muggles. The Polish are quite sure that he has told them that the wizards he names are actually just Muggle traitors and foreign spies.”

“Unfortunately, I am certain that Secrecy has been breached. Andropova herself has confirmed it—boasted of it, you might say, in her message to me after I solved the puzzle and accused her. She is proud of what she is doing.” Koroleva reached into her robes and withdrew a note, written in Ukrainian. “This says that the Russian Harrower, this vile person that your husband and his allies are confronting, has directed attacks only at those of non-magical birth, whether one parent or both.”

“That’s correct,” Hermione said, the sinking feeling in her stomach intensifying.

“Yes, so it seems, and Andropova determined it independently. I do not know how she learned this information, but my guess is that the first wizarding family to disappear must have had access to such records and shared them with her when they joined. She has since made it her mission to save Muggle-born and half-blood children from the Harrower… albeit by giving them over to Muggles to be ‘re-educated’ and trained as ‘extra-human’ Soviet agents.”

Hermione closed her eyes briefly. “Then all of our fears are correct, and the Muggles do find our abilities highly interesting and highly _useful_ for their own purposes.”

Koroleva nodded. “She has told a few about magic, and she and her allies are helping them to steal away magical children. When the parents resist, they are killed.”

Hermione rubbed her forehead and sneaked a peek at Auror Abbott. The Auror’s face was white with horror.

“You said she sent you a message after you accused her. Was this in person?” Hermione asked.

“No. I have been unable to confront her, because, in frankness, my government exists in name only now. There is no trust among my people now, due to the Russian and now to this. She has a team of magical allies, which means I would have to have a team of my own to confront her equally.”

“Well—now you do,” Hermione said briskly. She gazed at Abbott, sharing an understanding with the Auror at once. “I think that if you know where she is, then we should go to her immediately. How many adults do you estimate she has with her?”

“She may have as many as eight.”

“As you see, I have more people than that, and they are trained Aurors. I think we should detain her and the others as soon as possible, and then deal with the Muggles who were told.” Hermione spoke in authoritative tones, horrified by the situation but actually rather excited by the opportunity to be a hero. In fact, _she_ might be more of a hero than Tom would, since Wizarding Secrecy was actually breached here.

“You are quite eager,” Koroleva observed with an amused but kindly smile.

“It’s why we came here,” Hermione said. “We want to do whatever we can to take care of the problem, and then leave quickly—no offense—so that you can restore order and authority. I think we would only be in the way of that… and I have three children at home myself,” she added at the last.

“Ah. This distresses you.”

“It would distress anyone. This is terrible. I understand, I suppose, why they think they must do this—they’re trying to protect these children from the blood-purity Harrower—but they have no right to do it the way they are, murdering, kidnapping, and breaching Wizarding Secrecy. They should have reinforced your government instead of betraying and undermining confidence in it.” She hesitated. “I understand that some of the children, especially those with Muggle parents, are now orphans.”

“Yes. I would prefer that they remain in this country if possible, but if no one trustworthy in the wizarding community can adopt them, then we will do as we must.”

Hermione and Koroleva stood up. The group of Aurors followed, and the entire group filed out of the room.

* * *

“This is the place,” Koroleva said to Hermione. They were standing outside a building that was more ornate and stylized than the converted warehouse, either an older structure repurposed by the Muggle government or a state building designed to exude authority.

“Is it official?” Hermione asked. “To the Muggles,” she clarified.

“I think it must be, but you see that it is unmarked.” Koroleva gestured at the façade. “There is no sign. This is another indication that it houses secret activities. I think all of the children must live inside it now, but, of course, I do not know what else Andropova has—” Koroleva broke off as a guard approached the door.

“What is your business?” snapped the man.

Koroleva’s eyes narrowed. “Rudnyk,” she sneered. “I might have known.”

The man—apparently a wizard—moved to confront Koroleva, and then he noticed the team of fierce, deadly serious Aurors standing nearby. He hesitated.

Feeling heady with the thrill of the situation, Hermione stepped forward. Auror Abbott protested vocally, but Hermione did not heed it. Much to their dismay, she broke out of the group of Aurors, who had been clustering around her in a protective circle.

She stared the man down. “I am here on behalf of the Eastern Magical Resistance and its Western allies to negotiate with your leader, Verochka Andropova, concerning the release of the children that she has unlawfully kidnapped. As you can see, we are prepared to storm your facility if necessary. If all of you surrender and cooperate with us, we won’t have to.”

Rudnyk glanced at the Aurors once again. “I… right.” He vanished back into the building.

The Aurors tensed around Hermione, forming a cluster once more. Abbott whispered to her, “You should be more careful, Madam Riddle. It would be quite a coup if these rogues succeeded in harming you.”

“I am a foreign ambassador,” Hermione declared, “and Koroleva herself has authorized me to handle this.”

Rudnyk appeared again, his face more smug than before. “Andropova will not meet with anyone when she is threatened.”

“Very well,” Hermione said at once, not hesitating for a second. “I will meet with her privately as long as she understands that _any_ harm to my person will be met with retaliation upon all who work for her.”

Rudnyk disappeared to take the message. When he was gone, Koroleva turned to Hermione with a raised eyebrow.

“Madam Riddle,” Auror Abbott protested, “you are being reckless—”

“I want to do this,” Hermione cut her off. “There are children here, mostly children with non-magical parents—like I was—who have been victimized and exploited. I need to do this for them.” The conviction that had filled her spirit ever since she made the discovery in her home library was now stronger than ever.

The pathetic Rudnyk appeared a final time, this time with a harsh, sneering witch in Soviet-issue uniform and severely cropped hair standing beside him.

“Verochka,” Koroleva sneered, “the look of a ‘comrade’ does not suit you.”

“I was told,” Andropova said loftily, “that an ambassador from a foreign wizarding government was here to speak to me. All I see are a failed leader of a ragged rebel band”—she smirked at Koroleva—“and a team of what I presume are foreign soldiers. How low you have sunk, Koroleva.”

“I am the ambassador,” Hermione said, stepping forward. “They are here to protect me.”

“There will be no need for you to be protected,” Andropova replied. “I will speak to you, but your soldiers—”

“Aurors,” Hermione corrected.

The other witch rolled her eyes. “An invented term which serves to highlight the artificial separation from the rest of humanity imposed upon our people. Whatever you choose to call them, they may not be present at the diplomatic table.”

“They _will_ stand outside the door, and there will be wards around the room preventing anyone from leaving magically.”

“Then the room will be silenced on the inside. They are not diplomats, so they are not entitled to hear private negotiations.”

“As you wish. If you walk out and I do not, however, they know what to do.” To reinforce Hermione’s threat, Auror Abbott stared at the witch with a menacing look.

Andropova scowled but did not dispute the threat—or make additional demands. “Very well. This room”—she gestured at the room next to the foyer—“is a council room.”

Hermione peeked through the slightly opened door. Another table did occupy the room, though it was smaller and did not fill much space. It appeared that Andropova was not lying about the room’s purpose, however. She took a deep breath, gave Abbott and Koroleva encouraging looks, and entered the room with the Soviet defector. Andropova closed the door behind them. The charm was perfectly cast; Hermione could not hear a sound from outside now, and she knew that the people in the hall could not hear through the door either.

“Do sit down,” Andropova said, gesturing at the table.

Hermione shot her a level gaze, suspicious of her sudden politeness, but took a seat warily. She kept her wand at the ready. Promises or not, she did not trust this woman—but she was going to try to resolve this situation peacefully if she could.

_If I can talk down Tom Riddle, Dark wizard, Minister for Magic, and the would-have-been most notorious wizarding outlaw of all time, then I can talk down a well-meaning—if arrogant and wrongheaded—Soviet toady,_ she thought.

“I do not believe I was properly introduced,” the Ukrainian said.

Suddenly Hermione did not really want to give her name, but perhaps knowing the stakes—knowing the consequences if she did harm such an important guest—would be an additional impetus for the defector to control herself. Hermione hoped so. “I am Hermione Riddle, of Britain,” she said.

The other witch raised her eyebrows in evident surprise. “I see. This is an honor, then. I did not realize that your Minister deployed his own wife to foreign states.”

“I am not ‘deployed’ anywhere by his will,” she replied smoothly. “We are a team—comrades, you might say. He is currently in Russia, in fact, with his allies, to handle the ‘Harrower.’”

Andropova’s eyes narrowed at the mention of that person. “So you and he are trying to conquer the East at once?”

Hermione ignored that. “I am here for the reasons I gave. The children in this facility are kidnap victims. They are being held unlawfully, and your actions have violated the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy. However, if you and your allies agree to cease operations, cooperate with us, tell us which Muggles you’re working with, and release the children to the custody of Volodymira Koroleva… then we will be willing to reduce your sentences.”

Andropova snorted. “Reduce our sentences! The Statute of Secrecy! When you told me who you were, I knew that we could not talk fruitfully. I have heard of your husband’s political movement. It is astonishing that a party which so many consider to be the ideological successor to Grindelwald’s wizarding supremacism is more adamant than any other about preserving that obsolete law. Gather _everyone_ with magical ancestry under your laws! Even your blood-purity advocates would not do that.”

Hermione began to have misgivings about this idea. “I don’t know who your ‘so many’ are, or why they concern themselves with British politics,” she said coolly, “but it sounds as if you yourself might be a wizarding supremacist. Is that why you’ve been abducting these children and forming this Soviet program to train them as magical operatives? You want to create a force of Soviet wizards who will someday take over the USSR? Do what Grindelwald could not?”

“Certainly not. I do not think wizards should rule Muggles unless a wizard happens to be the most effective leader. Muggles have many great ideas, however, and we should be integrated fully into their world. Your party is moving in the opposite direction.”

“I agree that we should not slam the door on Muggle ideas and culture,” Hermione said carefully. “That isn’t what we do! You _can’t_ integrate Squibs with distant wizarding ancestors without bringing in ideas from the Muggle world. We welcome them if they’re good ideas. But Wizarding Secrecy is necessary because this world is dangerous. Muggles may not be as prone to religious fear now, but they have nuclear weapons, and if the wrong Muggles learned precisely what our abilities are, they might want us all dead.”

“Yes, yes, the scary story,” Andropova sneered. “Muggles would fear _unregulated_ rogue wizards. If we were fully integrated into their society, and they knew who we were and we worked with them, there would be no such fear. _Hiding_ does not exactly give them a reason to trust us. If we showed that we had nothing to hide and worked with them, it would be different.”

“Work with them…” Hermione trailed off. “You mean you would make us servants. We serve their purposes, fight their battles for them, _or else._ Is that it?”

“We are not separate. Our society is riven by the same conflicts that have defined history, the same tyranny of the aristocrats and of capital. The same type of hierarchy. We pretend to be separate because we are afraid of being made to ‘fight their battles for them,’ as you put it, but in reality we are refusing to do our part for society. It is not _their_ battle, after all.”

“If we’re not participating in their elections, their commerce,” Hermione said through clenched teeth, “if we’re not _inventing nuclear weapons,_ then yes, it is _their_ battle. We had no part in it. The conflicts are the same because human nature is the same. Of course we developed a hierarchy in our own societies. In Europe and Britain, it’s based altogether too much on ‘purity of blood,’ but we’re trying to put a stop to that at home by emphasizing talent and intelligence… and by reminding people that everyone under our laws has magical heritage. So if you want to break down that structure, you should work with me and give up this project peacefully.”

“I see that you believe what you say,” Andropova said thoughtfully, “and perhaps you are right that your husband’s party has made some small progress toward that goal. But I can make much greater progress by removing these children from a stunted society and placing them into a free and orderly one where there is no such aristocratic structure.”

Hermione shook her head sadly. “I don’t agree. You’re not freeing these children. You’re just putting them into a different hierarchy. You’re taking away their rights to self-determination.”

Verochka Andropova scowled at Hermione wordlessly. Although this was not exactly encouraging, it was at least an invitation to continue.

“I understand why you want to protect these children from this threat,” she said. “I really do! The Harrower is a monster. He definitely serves that blood-purity hierarchy. But you’re letting Muggles exploit you for their own political purposes. You don’t have to choose between being slaughtered by the Harrower or becoming servants of the Muggle state.”

“I am convinced that the so-called Harrower has been lying to the state about the people he directs the KGB to execute,” Andropova said tightly. “The state would not knowingly kill magical people unless individual ones presented threats. It values us highly when we work with them, as I have learned. Once they understand that our powers are real, not religious superstition, but an inborn trait, their opposition disappears. They wish to give us opportunity.”

“You’re correct about the Harrower, but these Muggles don’t wish to ‘give’ you anything,” Hermione said patiently. “You have no _choice._ Or those children don’t, at least.”

“The kind of choice you speak of begets waste. It is a tragedy when potential is wasted.”

“Maybe so, but you are taking away people’s right to determine the course of their own lives.”

Verochka sneered. “And you are not, by abducting our children and taking them to your countries? I know you have done it. Koroleva has allowed it, weak leader that she is.”

“We have never ‘abducted’ any children who have family to care for them. We also have never forced any adults to leave their homeland; we assisted those who wanted to. We did bring two _orphans_ to Britain, and our allies have done the same. In free nations they’ll at least have the chance, when they are old enough, to decide for themselves what they want to do in life.”

“Ah, the Western myth that you have self-determination,” Verochka regarded Hermione with contempt. “Again, what you have is wasted ability, whether because of your class system or because of individual laziness. But this was not to be the purpose of the meeting, to fight about politics.”

“Wasn’t it?” Hermione said quietly. “My husband can deal with the Harrower, though we would have welcomed your help—but _not_ as a Soviet agent. Our allies are in the Magical Resistance.”

Verochka’s eyes narrowed. She inhaled sharply.

Hermione continued. “The Harrower is going to be brought down. I had hoped to persuade you to give up what you are doing, to stop living in fear of his threat, and to join us.”

Verochka turned to Hermione grim-faced. “Well,” she said, “we have a problem, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'll find out what happened with Tom and his team in the next chapter.


	20. Subversion, Part IV: Mutually Assured Destruction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom and his team prepare for a hard fight. Hermione has found herself in a fight that she didn’t want.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone has suspected that the Subversion storyline was influenced by Marvel, you would be correct. I had _X-Men: First Class_ foremost in mind, and, yes, my take on Cold War wizard/Muggle geopolitics is strongly in agreement with Erik’s views in that film. I belatedly realized that Hermione’s discussion with Andropova in the previous chapter about working under Muggles’ regulation outed me as #TeamCap in the _Avengers_ universe, as well. I wasn’t thinking about that when I wrote it, but in retrospect it’s quite evident. Finally, there are a few elements/themes in this chapter that were probably influenced by _Doctor Strange_. (I say “probably” because they’re not here as deliberate references, but I suspect I had these ideas because of the movie.) I won’t spoil, but if you’ve seen it, you’ll recognize them.
> 
>  **Warnings:** This chapter is pretty dark, and for several reasons. I should also warn that some readers _really_ may not like one of the reasons, and may strongly disagree with my choice to write it (you’ll know what I mean when you read it). I _don’t_ think this particular thing could have happened years earlier, but we’re 14 years into the AU now.
> 
> As you see, this fic also has an archive warning now, like its parent fic. For _Choosing Grey_ I meant the Graphic Violence warning primarily for chapters 11, 15, and 25. Because some of the content here is similar, I have decided this chapter deserves that warning too. (For the record, _Choosing Grey_ has "chose not to warn" in addition because Tom is 17 for a couple of sex scenes. He's a few days shy of 18 when they occur, and Hermione is a few days shy of 19, but under AO3 rules it does call for a warning or "chose not to warn.” I preferred to use the latter, since people think of ages/age differences rather more eyebrow-raising when they see the Underage warning.)

Tom was extremely displeased with Igor Karkaroff.

 _What kind of government head doesn’t meet foreign dignitaries when they first arrive?_ he thought in fury. _Especially dignitaries who are trying to help him!_ It was a grave insult.

He, Grindelwald, and their teams were striding through magical St. Petersburg—a street like Diagon Alley but shabbier, though there were signs it had not always been so—in the direction of Karkaroff’s base. The man had not even sent an envoy to greet them. If Tom had not had cause to be suspicious of Karkaroff’s motives, his immediate reaction would have been to want to take revenge for the offense. As it was, this seemingly gauche behavior merely served as another reason to suspect the Russian leader—of rank cowardice, at a bare minimum.

 _It’s distinctly possible that Dolohov is effectively running the government here now and Karkaroff is hiding from him,_ Tom thought. He clutched his wand reflexively.

Nervous-looking magical residents of the city watched as the group of well-clad, official-looking people stalked down the street. Tom noted that there were a lot more fur-lined robes here than he had ever seen in London, and several of the witches and wizards held bottles not of firewhisky, but something Grindelwald told him was called “ice vodka.” They drank from their bottles openly in the street, which was socially unacceptable in wizarding Britain outside of Hogsmeade. Some of them evidently could read English, because there were a few who gawked at the prominent logos of the British Ministry of Magic and MACUSA on the Aurors’ robes. Tom noted that most of these people looked pleased and relieved, which heartened him.

 _They still have to keep order here themselves,_ he thought. _My Aurors are returning home._

The first volunteer approached the group as they passed an apothecary and addressed himself to Grindelwald, who he of course called by his new name. A few more witches and wizards hovered behind the man, listening in.

Tom watched as the two wizards conversed in Russian—then surreptitiously flicked his wand to activate a translation charm for his own ears. It was generally considered impolite, a form of eavesdropping, and the charm usually produced imperfect translations for the ears of the listener—but Tom was the bloody _Minister for Magic,_ he was here to solve these wizards’ problems for them, and as far as he was concerned, he had the right to understand what they were saying.

“Yes, we knew of his plans,” the Russian volunteer explained. Tom avoided looking at the wizard’s mouth; it was very strange and distracting that the shape of his lips did not match the words that Tom was hearing now. “He said that he and Dolohov had a team of professionals and did not require our help.”

Grindelwald caught Tom’s eye out of the corner of his own. He noticed that Tom was listening intently and realized what the Minister must have done. He raised his eyebrow clandestinely at Tom. Tom then fixed the Russian wizard’s gaze with his own and quickly invaded his thoughts.

There was not a hint of falsehood or treachery in the Russian’s mind. The offer was sincere. Tom quickly did the same to the group of wizards behind the first volunteer. If they were harboring thoughts of betrayal, those intentions were buried deep in their minds. Tom nodded almost imperceptibly at Grindelwald.

“You are welcome to volunteer with us, then,” Grindelwald said at once in the wizards’ native language. “Unlike the British Minister, I did not bring Aurors from Poland, so you can be my combat team.”

The Russians fell in with the British and American Aurors, and Grindelwald’s small circle of aides. Grindelwald took his place at the head of the group, next to Tom, once again as they continued their trek to the headquarters of the Russian magical government.

Igor Karkaroff was, finally, waiting for them at the door. His face broke into a smile that neither Tom nor Grindelwald trusted in the least. The multinational group of Aurors behind them collectively clutched their wands.

“Welcome!” Karkaroff exclaimed, still beaming. “This is a much greater force than I expected.”

“Yes,” Tom said curtly. “Our plan is to go to the headquarters of the Muggle KGB in this city and start the investigation there. Wherever the Harrower himself is based, it’s obvious that the Muggles in this city have taken direction from him, since the killings were all here. There will be a trail in their records and it is our best hope of finding this person.”

Karkaroff was taken aback at the lack of pleasantries on Tom’s side. He turned quickly to Grindelwald but saw the same icy derision and offense in his face.

“Well,” he said in reply, “that is logical, but there is something else to be done first.” He grinned, showing bad teeth. “I will lead the way.” He strode through the door, closing it magically behind him. No one followed behind.

“What ‘something else’? Where is your team?” Tom asked as Karkaroff took his place at the head of the group. “And your new lieutenant? I would like to meet him.”

“Your questions are related,” Karkaroff replied. “Dolohov is in charge of my team right now, and as it happens, he arrived at the same conclusion that you did—that the investigation should begin at the headquarters of the Muggle KGB in this city.” The man paused for a moment, hesitating a bit too long in Tom’s opinion. “He has discovered their next target and is on the way to the family’s home, with my team. We can reinforce him and then hear what he learned at KGB headquarters.” He threw a dismissive glance at the Russians who had assimilated themselves into the group of Western Aurors. “I have no objection to those people tagging along with us, but I should warn both of you that they are not the best of my people.”

Grindelwald smiled tightly, not impressed in the least that Karkaroff was insulting his people to their faces. “If we are going to take on a team of heavily armed Muggle KGB, we need all the wands we can have,” he said in harsh tones. When Karkaroff was not looking, he exchanged another pointed look with Tom, sending a mental message through his sharp eyes: _Don’t trust the official team. They are Dolohov’s. This is a trap and Karkaroff is likely in on it._

Tom did not need to be reminded.

* * *

Hermione stared at the Ukrainian woman before her. _All my Aurors are behind that door,_ she told herself. She faced the witch with what she hoped was a conciliatory look on her face.

“We don’t have to have a ‘problem’ if you come peacefully,” she said.

Verochka Andropova glared back at Hermione, silent fury in every flicker of her eyes.

“I understand why you have done this,” Hermione tried again. “The Harrower has threatened magical people for his twisted purposes, and you’ve been living in fear. Allowances can be made in the law for people who were acting under extreme conditions—”

Andropova snapped. “Keep your sanctimonious, condescending words to yourself!” She brandished her wand and hurled a nonverbal hex at Hermione.

Hermione had already brought her own wand out, and she was able to deflect the curse with a Shield Charm. It ricocheted back, striking the warded wall and dissipating silently.

“Put your wand up,” Hermione warned, pointing her own directly at Andropova’s head.

“Get out of my country!” the woman raged. “See to your own children before you worry about ours!”

“What is _that_ supposed to mean?” Hermione snarled, gripping her wand tighter.

“It means just what you think it does,” Andropova sneered. “You left them, did you not? While you came here to meddle in our affairs and seek personal glory?”

Hot anger filled Hermione’s head. “My children are not your concern!”

“Ha!” Andropova snapped triumphantly. “Then no more are ours your concern!”

“They’re not _your_ children, and Wizarding Secrecy _is_ my concern.”

With a sneer of contempt, Andropova sent another hex at Hermione. The duel was on.

* * *

Karkaroff had led them to what had clearly once been a grand aristocratic residence on the outskirts of the city, but no one lived in it now—officially, at least. It did not appear as though anyone lived in it in truth either. A thin layer of dust covered every surface, a moldy scent filled the air, and the little furniture that remained seemed in even worse condition than the table and chairs at the House of Gaunt. It was all natural decay, too; Tom could not detect a trace of magic in his surroundings, which he surely would have if this decrepit scene had been a wizard’s ruse. If anyone lived here, they were hiding somewhere else in the house and had not bothered to clean up any area of the mansion other than the part they resided in. The Soviet government had not repurposed this estate either, which struck Tom as very odd indeed.

Tom quickly and glanced furtively around the atrium, looking for flickering shadows, minuscule movements, the gleam of a Disillusionment Charm, anything to betray the location of Karkaroff and Dolohov’s team. For a place that supposedly housed a wizarding family, this building was far too musty and unclean.

A click suddenly broke the silence. Tom and Gellert exchanged shocked looks. They both knew what that sound was.

Into the room marched a sneering man dressed in Muggle civilian clothes who Tom realized must be Antonin Dolohov. Next to him were several dozen Muggles, all carrying heavy military rifles and dressed in Soviet-style uniform. There were easily three times as many of them as there were allied wizards.

Igor Karkaroff strode to Dolohov, but instead of drawing his wand, he shook his hand.

A betrayed, furious Russian cursed in his own language and pointed his wand at Karkaroff’s back. A red spell shot from the tip of his wand. Dolohov saw it coming and, with a look of dismay on his face, quickly threw up a Shield Charm. The spell dissipated harmlessly and the shield faded.

Grindelwald kept his wand concealed in his sleeve, waiting to see what the Muggles said before acting. Tom cast the translation charm again, keeping his wand under his flowing robes. He alone in this room could not actually die, but this was about to explode and he wanted to be ready for the moment that it did.

The KGB leader stared at the team of wand-bearing, grim-faced wizards, looking from Dolohov and Karkaroff to the group in horror and betrayal. “What _are_ you?” he shouted at Dolohov. Not waiting for an answer, he turned to his fellows.

“Has NATO created superhumans?” the second-in-command asked.

“I think they must have lived among us for some time, for there are also Russians with these dangerous abilities”—he glared at Karkaroff, Dolohov, and the Russian volunteers—“and _those_ two have played us for their own ends!” The officer’s voice rose in a crescendo. “They are threats to the security of the world, and we will expose this to the Kremlin!”

Grindelwald drew his wand, throwing his robes aside. “That’s enough! Stand down now!” he shouted in Russian, but the translation charm enabled Tom to understand him. Tom gripped his wand tightly. He heard murmurs behind him, and he realized that the Russian volunteers who spoke English must be telling the Aurors what the Muggles were saying.

Dolohov and Karkaroff darted away, their faces breaking into evil smiles. The Russian contingent looked furious. They surreptitiously brought their wands out, aware of what was likely to happen in a few seconds. The Aurors followed suit.

“Their powers might be useful,” objected the Muggle lieutenant, gazing upon the wizards with fear but also hunger.

“These are not. They are enemies—Westerners and traitors. They are too dangerous to keep alive. We will find the rest of them and do as command wishes, but these—kill them all!”

Tom was ready. So was Grindelwald.

They slashed their wands through the air, throwing up a powerful shield between the Muggles and the wizards as the KGB began to fire. Their bullets hit the shield, exploding on contact and dropping uselessly to the ground.

Dolohov and Karkaroff dashed away down the hallway of the mansion, darting through a door. Tom and Grindelwald glanced at each other, sharing the same thought.

 _The Aurors have this. They’re outnumbered, but these are only Muggles, and their bullets won’t be getting through magical shields. We have to stop those two._ They blasted curses through the magic shield, sending several of the KGB tumbling to the ground but not compromising the magic wall protecting the Aurors. They cast personal shields to protect themselves from the gunfire as they dashed past the Muggles, hugging the wall to their right. Finally they reached the room that Dolohov and Karkaroff had entered. Keeping their wands in hand and Dark curses on their lips, they darted into the room and sealed the door behind them.

* * *

Hermione was very angry now. “I really was going to offer you leniency, but you’ve ruined that chance with this violence!” she snapped, sending a mild curse at the other witch.

Andropova sneered at Hermione. “You have _no_ right to condemn me!”

Hermione dodged Andropova’s hex. “Don’t I?” She sent a return curse. “You’re a kidnapper, a murderer, and a bl—a traitor to wizards!” She had stopped herself from saying it, but it angered her further that she had been goaded into saying even that much.

Andropova smirked. “A _blood-traitor?_ That’s what you call people who don’t think like you, is it not?”

“You know nothing about me!”

Andropova continued to taunt her. “But I do. Your husband is a fool to involve himself in a foreign duel that could easily claim his life—”

“He _won’t_ die!” she snarled recklessly.

Andropova laughed. “Arrogant but typical of your side. You think you just _cannot lose._ I do not intend to kill you—”

Hermione dodged a curse. “Is that so? You’re dueling me!”

“I’m going to defeat you and let your ‘Aurors’ take you home crying, entitled aristocrat!”

 _“I’m_ entitled?” Hermione snarled, nonverbally firing a curse at her adversary. “I didn’t steal other people’s children!”

“Of course you didn’t! You don’t even care about your own children.” More return fire. “I don’t intend to kill you, but you didn’t know that when you came here. What would become of your children if both of you died?”

Hermione’s brain began to go foggy with rage. A vision of this hateful, petty, brainwashed witch lying prone on the floor flashed before her mind’s eye.

“You abandoned them. An inconvenience to you, are they?”

Hermione fired a curse at Andropova, which barely missed her. She could hardly even speak at the moment. _How dare she attack me as a mother—a kidnapper, a child abductor, attacking me?_

“You’re only concerned with selfish quests for personal glory, both of you.”

Heated, reckless rage filled Hermione’s body and clouded her mind. It was right on the tip of her tongue to cast a Dark curse—

Andropova smirked, aware that she had hit target. “Since they are such a burden to you, I could lift it. I would put them to good use. I could send an agent to Britain—”

That did it. The remaining thread of restraint in Hermione snapped. The wave of choking anger crested and crashed, inundating her mind. If _anyone_ threatened her children—

 _“Avada Kedavra!”_ she roared.

For half a second, Andropova’s face bore a look of shock and dismay. Then the toxic green curse struck her body, and she collapsed to the ground.

Silence fell over the room. Hermione stood over her defeated foe, her heart pounding. An inexplicable chill prickled over her body, despite the hot anger at the woman’s comments and the fact that she had been moving around during the duel. She also felt a sense of disconnection and unreality, as if someone else had just done that, someone occupying her body but not _her._ For a brief moment she felt no emotions at all, and even the sense of coldness subsided a bit.

And then it hit her.

_That was murder._

The chills redoubled. Pain and regret filled her where there had just been a void of emotions. The sense of detachment and impersonal feeling in her immediate memories started to fade as the reality of it slammed her. Her breathing increased, and a lump formed in her throat.

_I can’t think of it. I can’t and I won’t. I won’t be able to function if I do._

The pain lessened, and some of the detachment in her memories of the killing returned. A swooping feeling came over Hermione as she realized, with horror, what it signified. Hermione had killed by accident and in self-defense before. That had felt similar, but not nearly as intense as this.

_So this is what it feels like._

_And this is how painful remorse is._

The horror of that idea threatened to choke her right then and there, to make her sit on the floor, curl into a ball, and simply not move.

_I can’t let this cripple me. I can’t withdraw into myself. People need me. Being selfish is the very thing she accused me of. I have to keep going, even if it means this doesn’t heal properly._

She rubbed her eyes with her hands, took a deep breath, and walked to the door.

* * *

Adrenaline coursed through Tom’s veins as he dueled Igor Karkaroff in what had once been a grand dining hall. He felt profoundly _alive._ It was almost as if _this_ was closer to the life he was meant to live, if Hermione had not come.

Years ago, Hermione had shown him in horrifying detail why it was better for him to satisfy his power-lust through political machinations, rather than displays of raw violent power… and he knew that as Minister, he could not _personally_ duel every enemy he faced. But in this moment, dueling these foul traitors to magic with another great Dark wizard beside him… well, Tom could understand how he could have been seduced by the lure of violent, zero-sum answers. There was a thrill in having no rules to bind him.

Grindelwald was fighting Dolohov, and he was holding his own—but Tom could not help but observe the fact that Dolohov was quicker. Well, he was much younger. Grindelwald had much more knowledge of the Dark Arts and experience with a wand, so it was still equal.

Tom threw a particularly nasty curse at Karkaroff, which, to his dismay, the man barely dodged. Had it hit, it would have torn apart his arm muscles. Tom had to use other Dark curses in the duel; even he could not sustain the magical energy necessary to use the Killing Curse over and over, and these wizards were _fast._

A sharp cry pierced the room, echoing off the tall ceiling. Tom whipped his head around. Grindelwald was collapsing to the floor, clutching his right arm—

—Which was missing past the elbow. A heavy wet spray of red, bright pink, and beige lumps settled on the floor, mixed with occasional splinters of wood.

 _“No!”_ Tom shouted.

Dolohov laughed uproariously as Grindelwald tumbled fully to the ground on his side. Karkaroff momentarily stopped dueling Tom and gaped at the fallen wizard, appalled at the curse.

In that moment, frozen in time, Tom stared at Grindelwald’s fallen form for a moment too long.

_“Avada Kedavra!”_

He whipped around, but Dolohov’s curse struck him directly in the chest.

His body froze up. He was suddenly unable to breathe—and then he didn’t need to.

For the second time in his life, Tom found himself outside his physical body, gazing upon the scene from a separate vantage point. His body lay crumpled on the floor, lying face-down. His long, flowing dark green robes covered most of his body, making it look curiously fragile and small.

 _Grindelwald is still alive,_ he realized as he shifted his gaze. _He is not dead… he is not even bleeding… it must have cauterized… but no, that curse will spread throughout his body if I don’t—_

“You fool!” Karkaroff roared at his lieutenant. He was truly outraged—and frightened. Tom noted that he was shouting in Russian, but curiously, in this state, he understood it without a translation charm.

“What was I to do?” Dolohov snapped back.

“We should have negotiated with them! I had no idea they would bring that many Aurors!”

“I will not negotiate with dirty-blooded—”

“He was a foreign _Minister for Magic!”_ Karkaroff shouted in fury. “You _idiot!_ Their Aurors _will_ escape the Muggles, and they will declare war on us for this!”

“He came here to attack us, and he was a filthy half-blood to boot!”

“You ideological _fool!”_

Karkaroff hurled a hex at Dolohov and made a mad dash toward the door, but Dolohov was angry now. He sent a curse at his superior officer in return—and at that point, Tom decided it was time for him to reanimate himself. He focused his thoughts on the prone body lying on the ground, and with a rush, conveyed himself toward it. He connected with his brain, still in perfect condition, since it had been less than a minute of oxygen deprivation.

Heat. That was the first thing he felt again. Heat, then weight, and then pain in his chest from where the curse had struck him.

Tom Riddle heaved his breath, rose from the ground, and drew his wand as his robes fell in elegant lines down his form. Dolohov and Karkaroff stared at him, their own duel momentarily halted in their shock at his survival.

 _“Avada Kedavra,”_ he said coldly, his words full of disdain.

Dolohov tried to run, but he was not in time. The lethal green jet struck him, and he fell to the ground.

Karkaroff’s eyes were wide as saucers as he ran for the door. Tom sneered in derision at the man’s cowardice. Without even lifting a foot, he sent a Stupefy at Karkaroff. Karkaroff crashed to the floor face-down. Tom stalked over, his footsteps echoing in the dining hall. He nudged Karkaroff onto his back and glared at him.

“Don’t kill me!” Karkaroff pleaded. “I didn’t want him to cast that at you—I’m so glad it didn’t take—I didn’t mean—”

“You lie,” Tom said in icy tones. “You led me and my team into a trap, intending us to be slaughtered by armed Muggles. You only had second thoughts about it once you saw how many of us there were, but you were already committed and you went ahead with the plan. I know _exactly_ what you meant.”

“I—I knew that your Aurors would take care of the KGB!” he whimpered. “I brought them here so that it would all be stopped!”

“Liar. You _lied_ about having a team of volunteers for me.” He slashed his wand violently through the air, nonverbally casting a Dark curse. Karkaroff screamed as the flesh on one of his cheeks melted away as if burned, leaving exposed deep tissue.

“I—didn’t—Dolohov was mad, utterly mad—tried to stop—got out of hand—I never meant….” It was obvious that Karkaroff was having difficulty speaking around the pain.

 _“You_ brought blood purity into the Russian Resistance!” Tom snarled. _“You_ think the same things he did, just a bit milder! You fought beside him in the duel!” He turned around to cast a glance at Grindelwald, who was stirring. This had to be wrapped up quickly, then. He faced Karkaroff again. “What did you _think_ would happen when you cultivated the same beliefs yourself in the ranks and then promoted a true believing violent hothead to be your officer? Did you really think you could _control_ him? Fool!”

Karkaroff winced. “I didn’t mean—it got out of control—please don’t, I beg you—”

Tom scowled in disgust. “You sicken me, coward. _Crucio!”_

Karkaroff writhed on the floor as Tom sustained the curse. Despite himself, a faint smile came to his face. It had been _so_ long since he had had the freedom to do this….

“Riddle.”

Grindelwald’s voice distracted Tom. He ended the curse and glanced at the German wizard once again. He was seated upright on the floor, clutching his maimed arm. The blood vessels in the upper arm were slowly turning black.

Tom gave Karkaroff one last disgusted glance. “I should kill you too, but I won’t. I’ll leave you to your own people outside that door. They’re the ones you betrayed first, after all.” He summoned Karkaroff’s fallen wand, pocketed it, and directed his own at the man’s head. He focused his thoughts on the Killing Curse that Dolohov had cast. _“Obliviate.”_

Karkaroff’s face softened. Tom slashed his wand through the air one last time, sending the Russian unconscious. He turned and walked over to Grindelwald, who was staring at him with wariness in his intelligent eyes—and fear.

Tom crouched next to Grindelwald as he held out his ruined right arm. Tom winced at the sight of it; the curse was already starting to kill the tissue in the remaining part of the limb.

“There is something I can do,” he said hesitantly, pointing his wand at the stump. “It’s… a Dark healing spell… and it’ll hurt… but if you welcome the pain it causes, you won’t lose any more of your arm.” He hesitated again. “If you don’t think you can do that, tell me now, because the spell is extremely dangerous otherwise.”

“I… can do it,” Grindelwald got out. “Cast it.”

Tom’s pocket watch, the one that Hermione had given him when he turned eighteen, slipped out of his robes. Suddenly it was a very unwelcome sight, especially in conjunction with Grindelwald’s grey hair and wrinkled face. _This was his wand arm,_ Tom thought. _One of the greatest duelists of all time, and now—_

He pushed the grim thoughts out of his mind and cast the spell. Grindelwald gritted his teeth as the Dark healing rushed over his arm. The toxic blackness in his veins faded away as Dolohov’s curse was destroyed, but the arm remained maimed—as it always would, since it was a Dark curse that had struck him. The two wizards stood up.

Grindelwald heaved a breath. “Well,” he said, pushing his robe sleeve down. “I suppose I should see Gregorovitch soon for a new wand. No, don’t give me that one,” he added when Tom made to hand over Karkaroff’s. “I did not take it myself, so it won’t like me. I must have a new one. It is a good thing that nobody recognizes me.” He held out his left arm, the only hand he had now, and flexed his fingers. “I’ve heard of wizards who learned to use their other hand to cast.”

 _How can you make light of it?_ Tom’s thoughts screamed. _Even if you can cast spells with that hand, you’ll never be fast enough to duel again in your life!_

That pocket watch still dangled out of his robes. Irritated, he shoved it back inside, perhaps a little too hard. Grindelwald noticed the movement and gazed pointedly and knowingly at Tom.

“So, are you intending to claim that you found the Cloak of Invisibility?”

Tom started. His eyes widened as he got a good look at the other man. Grindelwald was not asking the question sincerely. Deep, knowing cynicism was etched in every line of his face—and sad disappointment in his former star protégé.

“No,” Tom said, though he was not sure why he said it. Perhaps it was that Grindelwald obviously knew now that possessing all three Deathly Hallows would not actually grant someone immortality, so why attempt that charade at all? “I don’t think I’m going to claim any such thing. We both know the Dark Arts too well for that _lie,_ don’t we?”

The two Dark wizards regarded each other warily.

“When did you create it?”

“Before _that duel_ in 1945.”

Grindelwald’s eyes flew wide open. _“Mein Gott…_ and I let you take the Elder Wand.”

Tom gripped his yew wand. “Would it have changed your plans to know?”

Grindelwald did not answer. “You don’t use it now, I see.”

“Hermione took it from me.” That was all he cared to say. Grindelwald did not need to know that the Elder Wand now lay in state in the display cabinet in his office, superficially mended for appearance’s sake but unusable now.

“Good. Yes—of course she must have. It would have destroyed you long ago otherwise. I had no idea….”

They stared at each other for a few more moments before Grindelwald spoke again. “When I was a young man, I had goals much like yours… though I sought to achieve them by different means.” He shot Tom a wry glance. “I hope someday you will see what I saw.”

“What do you want?” Tom asked flatly. His wand twitched in his hand.

“Are you planning to kill me, _Minister?”_ His tone was sardonic.

Startled, Tom gazed at the Dark wizard, one of his mentors. “I… really don’t want to,” he admitted. “But… you have dangerous information….” He thought for a moment. “But not if you keep it to yourself. The Unbreakable Vow?”

Grindelwald stared at Tom for a moment before nodding.

* * *

The rest of the wizards in Andropova’s installation had surrendered quickly, collapsing like rotten fruit after her death, and the Aurors had accepted Hermione’s explanation that the witch had threatened the life of an ambassador, a violation of international law even among wizards. Hermione felt sick at the lie, but what purpose would it serve to tell the truth? She sighed to herself as she left the Aurors to take care of the situation.

“Madam Riddle?”

Hermione still felt hollow and broken. _I didn’t have to kill her. That was not self-defense and it was not justice. I was simply angry with her. I am a murderer now and for the rest of my life._ She did not even hear the Auror’s words.

“Madam Riddle,” Auror Abbott said again.

Hermione looked up wearily.

“The Minister has sent a notification to us. He has defeated the Harrower and his… ‘comrade’… and is going to Apparate to Koroleva’s compound momentarily.”

Hermione chuckled weakly at Abbott’s choice of words, but her laughter quickly vanished. “Very well. I will see him and discuss the situation. You are in charge of the operation here.” She tried to control her shaking. “The children are your priority. Take them to the compound. We should be there.”

“What of the adults?”

Hermione swallowed, trying not to look at the wrapped body of Verochka Andropova. “If you find any more wizards and witches, take them alive if possible. We may have to use Memory Charms, but try to just detain them for now.” She took a deep, shaky breath. “Obliviate the Muggles who knew of the project, and seize their paperwork. We’ll have to examine it to determine how high in the Soviet bureaucracy the knowledge went. Any Muggles who knew of us must be made to forget.”

Auror Abbott seemed to understand that Hermione was deeply upset. She nodded quickly and directed her battalion to move on the Soviet building.

Hermione heaved another breath. She had to get control of herself before attempting to Disapparate. At last, she turned in the air, felt the familiar squeezing, and vanished.

Tom was waiting in a private, warded room in the hideout. He looked disturbed himself, his brow furrowed. He managed a smile as she appeared.

Hermione only vaguely remembered rushing him, but somehow they found themselves in a tight embrace. Tom was relieved that she was alive and well, even though she was not supposed to have been walking into a life-threatening situation. Hermione had been more concerned about him—not because she feared he would truly die, but because a violent duel with ruthless Dark wizards could do a lot of damage. He looked tired and upset, but nothing worse than that. She closed her eyes, hugging him closely.

“Karkaroff was a traitor just as you thought,” he said, breaking the silence.

Hermione opened her eyes and slackened her grip on him, though they remained in a loose embrace.

“His treachery ran even deeper than we guessed. His ‘volunteers’ were a squad of KGB ready to slaughter my Aurors—and the honest Russian volunteers Gellert picked up.”

Hermione gasped.

“Dolohov is dead, and Karkaroff has been left to the Russian rebels’ justice.” He stopped talking abruptly, his face closing up before Hermione’s eyes and a pained expression coming over it.

Hermione felt a swooping feeling in her gut. “And… Gellert?” She dreaded the answer.

Tom sighed. “He survived… but Dolohov destroyed his wand arm. Forearm. Vaporized it. It was a Dark curse, of course, so it can’t be restored. He’ll still be able to do magic with his left hand, and they might be able to attach an artificial hand, but he will probably never be fast enough to duel again.” He rubbed the top of his head.

It was evident to Hermione that this bothered him deeply. Watching a great Dark wizard be permanently crippled, unable to defend himself effectively for the rest of his life, must be personally unsettling to Tom in a way that she could not comprehend to the same degree. She was not entirely surprised by that fact, but still… there was surely more….

“Tom, what else happened?”

He did not want to answer.

“Tom?”

He sighed again. “When Dolohov got his arm, it distracted me, and he… hit me with the Killing Curse.” He seemed ashamed of the admission.

She gazed at him in horror. “Oh, Tom—”

“I’m fine.”

She squeezed him tightly again, burying her head on his shoulder. Her feelings were so conflicted right now…. This was the second time that the diary had saved his life, saved their future together… the children existed because of it, and now they still had their father because of it…. It was still sad and wrong, and yet—

She didn’t want to think about it right now. Instead she focused on what had caused all of this to happen in the first place: the rank cowardice and weakness of Igor Karkaroff.

“You know, Karkaroff would have been head of Durmstrang—”

“No, he wouldn’t have.”

She closed her eyes and squeezed Tom’s sides, just to feel him. “I suppose… not. Not this time. Too much was different about what he did with his life.” It was so odd now to think of Voldemort and the Death Eaters, she reflected. She had known of Voldemort for seven years, but she had personally known Tom for twice that many.

“He was a traitor to his people. They both were. Anyone who would direct Muggles to kill fellow wizards, playing a game that would result in the forced servitude or annihilation of all of us, is the very definition of a blood-traitor, just as I said. They deserved death, and I gave it to Dolohov, at least.”

His voice was harsh, and the reminder of death—not that she really needed it—made Hermione shake again.

“Hermione?” he asked in a gentler tone.

She took a deep breath. “The Ukrainian children were being kidnapped by an agent of the Soviet state—a witch who went over to that side. I met her… and I killed her.”

Tom seemed to understand that Hermione was not pleased about this, so he did not offer congratulations or attempt to convince her it was justified. She was immensely grateful for it.

“I didn’t have to,” she continued. “She didn’t even cast a lethal curse at me. She just made me angry, talking about how she had been stealing children to be trained as Soviet spies, and how we in the West were no different by taking orphans out of here.”

“That’s absolute rubbish,” Tom declared. “They can at least choose what they want to do.”

“I told her that, but she was completely converted to that ideology. And then,” Hermione continued, sighing. Thinking about what came next riled her again, making her forget her remorse. _“Then_ she accused us—you and me—of not caring about our own children, and said she might take them herself.”

Tom’s face grew white with rage. “If you hadn’t killed her, I would have done it myself. I’d do it to anyone who threatens our children.”

“But she said it to goad me, to make me careless. It was just a stupid taunt, and I….” She cast her gaze down. “I could have just disabled her—and then the Healers at home—or memory magic….” She broke off. “Tom, I’m a _murderer_ now. I know that’s how it read. I _felt_ it.” She closed her eyes.

His heart suddenly skipped a beat.

 _Use it._ It was on the tip of his tongue to say that to her right now. The watch that she had given him floated back into his memories. _Tick-tock, tick-tock…._ Grindelwald’s arm, blown to bits. The great man collapsing to the ground. _Tick-tock._

 _Use it. Do it._ He wanted so, so much to tell her that.

Hermione’s face was still crumpled in anguish at her confession of murder. _It wouldn’t bother me, but it bothers her,_ he thought. _She wouldn’t want me to say that to her at this time. This upsets her, so she will be angry and deeply hurt if I respond that way._ It was irrational to him, but he knew it to be true nonetheless.

He did not say the words that played back in his mind repeatedly. He stayed silent, embracing her tightly. She was warm and soft and _his_ and this was what she needed. As he hugged her, the ticking of his watch in his imagination and the image of Grindelwald’s final duel faded away.

“Volodymira Koroleva told me she used to be in the Magical Resistance. She might not have switched sides if Dolohov hadn’t targeted Muggle-borns. She thought she was helping vulnerable people. She believed she was doing the right thing… and I murdered her because she _taunted me.”_ She drew close to him again and rested her head on his shoulder once more.

He hesitated for a bit before finally commenting. “She had no right to do what she did, and she was also a coward and a traitor. Others in the Resistance stood firm.”

“I just don’t know what to do anymore,” she said, feeling her eyes grow hot and damp with unshed tears. “I wanted to make a better world. I wanted to use my knowledge of what would’ve happened to make things better this time, but it’s so different now that I know nothing more than anyone else about what to do next. You’re Minister, Grindelwald is free and is essentially the shadow Minister in Poland… but does it matter? Even with everyone in the East under threat, there are still wizards who hate other wizards so much that they’ll use Muggles to do their killing—and not just any Muggles, but Muggles who would kill or enslave _every last one of them_ if they could! And I’m no better! I’ll kill someone because she makes me angry, even when she might have been able to be saved and turned into a strong ally. She _was_ a better leader than Koroleva. God, Tom, what is wrong with us? What is wrong with the human race? Is there even any point in _trying?”_

Tom growled. “You are _nothing_ like Dolohov or Karkaroff, and I don’t want you to compare yourself to them ever again. Karkaroff betrayed people who trusted him, and Dolohov sent squads of Muggles to shoot witches and wizards in their sleep. He risked Wizarding Secrecy for his stupid blood-purity beliefs. You didn’t do _anything_ like that. And that woman handed wizarding children to a bunch of Muggles who think they’re superior to us—who believe that _they_ are entitled to use _us_ for their ‘glorious revolution.’” His face was twisted in contempt and anger.

Hermione drew away a little, though they still held each other. They gazed at each other’s faces. Tom’s expression calmed a bit at that.

“And do you really think this world is no better than the arsehole of a timeline that you left? I know you don’t agree with everything I’ve done, but Britain’s wizarding world is stable and prosperous. We can help these refugees and rebels instead of fighting pointless civil wars. Apparently, as hard as it is for me to believe, I would be _inciting_ one right now otherwise. Don’t tell me that ‘doesn’t matter.’”

“Tom, of course I’m happy that you aren’t doing that!” Hermione exclaimed. “I love you, so of course I’m glad you aren’t… what you would have been… and I’m glad things are good at home. But things still went badly, just in a different way, and _this_ wouldn’t have happened— _these_ people wouldn’t have been killed—if I hadn’t meddled with time.”

He gripped Hermione tightly and looked her in the eye. “Listen to me carefully, Hermione. _None_ of what happened today is your fault.”

“Andropova’s death was.”

“Even that wouldn’t have happened if she hadn’t done what she did… but if you want to blame someone other than her, blame Dolohov and Karkaroff, not yourself. You didn’t make any of these people do what they did.” He breathed deeply. “What happened here is not of your making. You are _not responsible_ for everything that goes wrong in the world, Hermione.”

The tears finally flowed. Hermione leaned in again, holding him tighter still. Her head lay on his shoulder, and her arms wrapped around his neck and shoulders as if her life depended on it. He enclosed her in a firm, powerful grip once more.

He was right about his main point, of course, and she wasn’t really blaming _herself_ for the actions of Dolohov and Karkaroff—or Andropova. Her meddling might have made the choices possible for them, but they had still made the decisions themselves. But Tom’s attempt to absolve her of the responsibility for Andropova’s death did not persuade her. If they had made their own decisions, so had she.

There was something else too, something she hadn’t wanted to face.

 _I understand now. I understand the murderous rage he felt when he confronted his Muggle relatives… and Pollux Black. I hate it, but I get it now. We’re both dark, broken people, corrupted by a sick world,_ she thought. Oddly, it gave her a small amount of comfort to think of that. It was a difficult thing to face—to have to accept the fact that she could commit murder—but at least she wasn’t alone in having to face that dark and corrupted part of herself. There was some twisted comfort in knowing that he knew this darkness too.

She tried to focus only on the tactile sensations of her arms around him and his around her in that possessive grip she knew so well. She ran her hands over his silken robes, feeling the firm muscles of his shoulders underneath, and planted a light kiss on the side of his face.

“Minister!”

They broke apart at the sound of the Auror’s voice. “Come in,” he said.

Abbott opened the door hesitantly. She was flanked by Koroleva and the chief Auror who had gone with Tom.

“Everything is under control,” she reported. “We’ve Obliviated the Muggles that we found in that facility, and the Ukrainians are going to determine who else among the Muggles knew of it. The children are safely in this building, and I’m told that Baginski has been returned to Poland with his aides and the Russians who volunteered to assist your operation are going to choose a new leader amongst themselves. Fortunately, we are not needed here any longer.”

Koroleva managed a weak smile. “And I thank you—very, very much.”

“You’re welcome,” Tom replied in clipped tones. He managed a weak, sardonic smile that Hermione knew was actually rather full of malice, but Koroleva would not know that. “Do see to it that we don’t have to do this again.”

To her credit, she looked embarrassed.

Tom turned to Hermione. “Let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That concludes “Subversion.” I have more story arcs coming, and you will probably be glad to know that—although some of them involve drama—it’ll be back to the domestic front of politics, and their family will be present much more. I have really kicked the crap out of both Tom and Hermione with this arc (especially this _chapter_ ) and the poor things need something a little nicer.


	21. True Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Riddles return home with a renewed appreciation for their family. Then one of Tom’s associates comes to him with distressing news about his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There were brief moments in the previous chapter that, er, had a double meaning (i.e., real-world significance), but other than that, I have avoided consciously putting any obvious topical references into this story. Be forewarned that I’ve broken that rule at the end of this chapter. It’s not just for me to use my story to vent my own frustrations; there is a plot reason for it that will become clear in the next chapter.
> 
> I also wanted to ground everyone in time, since I haven’t been putting dates at the beginning of chapters for a while. This is very late 1958. Madeline is 8 (she was born in October 1950), and Virgil is almost 5 (he was born in early 1954).

The children had not actually been at the Rosiers’ for any longer than the usual work day, but it seemed much longer to their parents.

As the little ones rushed toward Hermione and Tom, a weak smile bloomed on her face. The children were innocent and just happy to have their parents home. They did know that something bad had happened abroad, and they were intelligent enough to worry a bit, but in their minds, Mum and Dad were still invincible heroes who could make anything right. Therefore it was no surprise to Madeline and Virgil that, of course, Mum and Dad had put this to rights.

Hermione accepted her baby from Celeste Rosier, Vincent’s wife. They had not known each other in school; the other witch—formerly Celeste Flint—had finished Hogwarts three years after Hermione. They chattered briefly about their families, as they usually did when they saw each other, because they did not discuss politics very much. Celeste—and, Hermione would guess, also Vincent—still held a certain degree of blood-purity supremacism. Their default, unconscious belief seemed to be that _most_ purebloods were better witches and wizards than _most_ others, but that there were exceptions to that rule of thumb, the Riddles among them. Although Hermione was sure that the Rosiers did indeed place her family in their “exceptional half-bloods” box, it was frustrating that they could not move beyond this last vestige of blood supremacism. Tom, of all people, had managed to do so. _Granted,_ Hermione thought, cuddling Cynthia, _it’s because he doesn’t consider anyone to be very valuable unless they’re intelligent and magically powerful, but within that select group, he’s egalitarian about it._

A child suddenly hugged Hermione’s legs. She glanced down and noticed, to her surprise, that it was Madeline. Her gaze shot to Tom, and she saw with even more surprise that he was picking up Virgil. That was interesting. Generally their “favorite” parents had been the opposite….

She flashed Tom a pointed gaze as they said their farewells to the Rosiers. He walked to the Disapparition spot at the Rosiers’ doorstep, still carrying Virgil, and they disappeared home.

Once inside their familiar town house, they went at once to the family sitting room. Tom set their son down, but neither of the older children wanted to be too far away from their parents.

“We were worried about you,” the little boy remarked, sitting down between Tom and Hermione with a simple storybook in hand.

“We were fine,” Hermione reassured him. “We just had to take care of the emergency.”

He smiled at her, looking in that moment very much like his father, but with the innocence that Tom had probably lost as a small child as soon as his brilliant mind figured out that there was no Mum or Dad for him. Hermione hugged her son and did not immediately let go. She had just come from a place where children had been orphaned and kidnapped, where they would have been pressed into the service of an authoritarian Muggle state. She had saved those children from that fate, but she could not restore the families they had lost. Suddenly, her own children were even more precious to her.

He was such a quiet, brainy, imaginative boy, she thought. Having been bullied for her bookishness, even by one of her friends, she worried a little about how he would do at Hogwarts. Madeline was surely going to be a Slytherin; Hermione would be astonished if she didn’t go there, but she rather hoped that the Hat would use the children’s own personalities to Sort them instead of the mere fact that they were descendants of Salazar Slytherin. She truly did not think that Slytherin would be good for Virgil. Madeline would defend him there, but he needed to be more assertive himself. Virgil should be a Ravenclaw or possibly a Hufflepuff, unless his personality changed drastically by the time he was eleven. Tom might not like it—but then again, she reminded herself, he did respect the Founders, even if he had thankfully not stolen their artifacts for dark purposes.

They had no clues yet as to where little Cynthia would go, of course, except that she was probably a Parselmouth like her two siblings. She was not at all old enough to speak words, and in fact was still nursing, but she was inordinately fascinated by the grass snakes that inhabited the Riddles’ small back yard, drawn to the abode of “speakers,” and she seemingly even tried to hiss at them. Even Madeline and Virgil had not done that this early. However, Virgil was a Parselmouth and it didn’t mean that he had Slytherin personality traits. Wherever their children ended up, hopefully Tom wouldn’t try to shame any of them over their Sorting. She wouldn’t allow it.

Virgil opened his book and started to read aloud, being in that stage still. Hermione listened fondly, wondering—with a pang—how much longer he would do this. It would not be long, she guessed, before he read his books silently, and she would not hear the hesitant but increasingly confident little voice sounding out his words….

Hermione’s black cat, the very one Tom had given her twelve years ago, stalked elegantly into the room. As a part-kneazle, Sable was quite spry and healthy still. The cat rubbed against her legs, intelligently recognizing that she needed affection at the moment. A smile came to her face.

Madeline spoke. “I wish we could go to the park again.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow mildly. “You would be cold.”

The girl pouted. “We could wear coats, and you and Dad could put warming charms on them. We haven’t been there in so long,” she pleaded. “I want to use my birthday broom and I can’t do it in the Muggle parks.”

It was true enough, Hermione thought. For her eighth birthday a month and a half ago, Madeline had received her first “real” flying broom, but she hadn’t had the chance to try it out. Hermione exchanged a glance with Tom. He shrugged. She turned back to her daughter and gave her a smile. “We’ll go this weekend, then.”

* * *

Hogsmeade Park was one of Hermione’s own pet projects, established only last winter by Tom’s Ministerial declaration. She had long had the opinion that the wizarding world did not have nearly enough public facilities, and that it was monumentally unfair to city children to be unable to play magical games out-of-doors unless they had a friend or relative who lived in the country. It was no wonder that Quidditch players so often came from families that had isolated country homes.

Hermione had lobbied the Wizengamot heavily to set aside a parcel of land on the outskirts of Hogsmeade, on the side of the village opposite the one bordering the school, as a public wizarding park. There were three small Quidditch pitches and one full-sized one, as well as children’s play areas and well-maintained natural scenery. Benign magical creatures were permitted to make their homes there, and Muggle-Repelling Charms protected the facility. It provided jobs to security and maintenance staff, as well as offering a place for witches and wizards to enjoy the outdoors. Although the Departments of Magical Creatures and Magical Games and Sports had each really wanted to have authority over the park, Tom had instead created a new Office of Magical Parks under the Minister’s direct control. He only permitted Magical Creatures staff access to matters directly concerning the ecology of the magical wildlife, and Magical Games and Sports could only get involved if the Quidditch leagues played official games there.

 _Magpie-like tendencies indeed,_ Hermione thought that weekend. The family had just Apparated to the park, and Tom was surveying it with a rather possessive smile on his face. Sometimes his inclination to take ownership of things unsettled her a little. The park was actually her idea, but she certainly didn’t consider the facility to “belong” to her. She quickly brushed the thought aside as they headed toward one of the smaller Quidditch pitches, Madeline excitedly clutching her new broom.

Near the pitch was a pleasantly situated grove of trees overhanging picnic tables. A stream that apparently flowed into the Hogwarts lake rippled close by, icy cold in the winter. Although no snow currently covered the ground, it was frozen solid. She held Cynthia close. The baby was wrapped warmly in charmed clothing and a blanket, but one could not be too careful.

Hermione pulled Madeline’s black hair back and tied it up. She covered her ears with a warm cap, which she then charmed to stay on the child’s head. Bundled up, Madeline bounded onto the pitch, where several children were already playing. To prevent injury, children at the park were not allowed to play Quidditch with regulation Bludgers. These Bludgers were mere stuffed round bags charmed to fly about as the real thing would do, but they were quite good enough for the budding athletes. A few of the children, whom Madeline knew from the daycare at Hermione’s workplace, welcomed her and admired her broom. She kicked off and took flight as her parents kept an eye on her.

“Where on earth did she get it from?” Tom murmured as the little girl scored a goal against a child who was at least two years older and possibly Hogwarts age.

Hermione chuckled. “This is her own talent. Not everything is inherited—or even taught.”

“I suppose not.”

Virgil tugged on Hermione’s sleeve. She glanced at him inquiringly. “Do you have any paper, Mum?” he asked. He produced a box of crayons from his satchel. “I forgot.”

Hermione shook her head. She glanced pointedly at Tom, who had brought along a briefcase. He set it on the table, opened it, and brought out a single sheet, which he passed to his son.

Hermione frowned at the table, which was rough on top. “Wait,” she said, brandishing her wand over the surface. It smoothed out, providing Virgil a nice drawing surface. Happily he began to draw a picture of the winter landscape that surrounded them.

After a while, Tom glanced at the picture that Virgil was drawing. His eyes widened. “You know,” he said, “this is _really_ good. Maybe you should take art lessons from a wizarding painter someday. I know they don’t teach it at the school.”

Virgil beamed.

Tom gazed at him admiringly for a moment before he withdrew a book from his briefcase—a book bound in dark blue leather that Hermione knew very well indeed. Her skin prickled, and her features momentarily turned down in profound disapproval as she met his eyes. What the bloody hell was he about by bringing the thing to a public place?

He peered challengingly back at her and opened the book, defying her with his gaze. He tapped its pages with his wand. At once a figure appeared on the page facing him, an ink drawing. It was a very good one, too—a picture of Hermione herself, holding her pet cat. Since it was a wizarding drawing, her hands moved over the purring cat’s fur, and the cat’s tail flicked back and forth. Hermione’s eyebrows shot up to her forehead. _Since when can Tom draw?_

“Mum and Sable!” Virgil exclaimed exultantly. “I didn't know you drew, Dad.”

“I taught myself. Would you like me to show you some things about drawing someday?”

The boy nodded assertively, reaching over to touch the picture.

Tom quickly pulled the diary away. “Don’t touch,” he said. “This is Dad’s private book.”

 _Oh, is that your latest euphemism for it?_ Hermione thought. But Virgil understood the notion of privacy, even if he thankfully had no clue of the _reason_ for it in this case, and he did not attempt to touch it again.

“How can I save pictures in a private book?”

Tom’s mouth curled upward in pleasure, but Hermione was not going to let him answer that, even though she knew he would not give the full truth. This had gone quite far enough. Immediately she cut in, “You should just keep them in scrapbooks. I can use Permanent Sticking Charms, or you can glue them yourself the Muggle way. It’s advanced magic to save _memories”_ —she emphasized the word pointedly, glaring at Tom—“in books. You don’t learn how to extract copies of memories from your mind until sixth or seventh year in school,” she explained hurriedly as Tom closed the diary and slipped it into his heavy winter robes, smirking.

Fortunately, her innocent child accepted this explanation.

A bit later, the impromptu, informal Quidditch game ended, and the children went their separate ways. Madeline’s face was red with the cold, and the hair that stuck out from under her cap was mussed, but she was very pleased with the afternoon.

“That was great!” she exclaimed. “I can’t wait to go to Hogwarts. I’m going to play Chaser. It’s so good that Professor Slughorn convinced the Headmaster to let first-years have their own brooms like everyone else.” She had heard this from children at Hermione’s office, who had older siblings at Hogwarts.

Hermione smiled fondly at her. “You still have several more years, but keep practicing! There’s no reason a first-year couldn’t be on the team if she’s the best.”

* * *

That night, after the children had had their baths, the doorbell sounded. It was very unusual for the Riddles to have personal guests, especially at night. They shuffled out of the family sitting room and to the front door, where a small, discreet, elegantly framed magical panel mounted on the wall next to the door announced the identity of the visitors—one of their joint inventions and patents. Hermione’s organization sold the panels, though at no profit. Like the Marauder’s Map and Tom’s list that he had used in school, they used tracking charms that could not be fooled by Polyjuice Potion. Hermione remembered the war days in her old life and the concerns over impostors gaining access to private homes. There was no reason for any such thing to happen now. At this moment, it was Vincent Rosier who was visiting.

Tom scowled as he jerked the door open. The other wizard stood in the frigid air, bundled up in his overcoat and hat.

“What are you doing here, Vincent?” Tom said coldly, letting Rosier inside and closing the door behind him to avoid letting cold air in. He glared at his deputy. “You know I don’t bring work business into my own home.” He spared a glance for his children, the older two of whom stood barefoot in the foyer, gazing at the man whose family they had recently stayed with for a few hours during the day.

Rosier scowled. “It’s _not_ work, Riddle. It’s about my family.”

Tom’s face instantly changed, as did Hermione’s. “I hope they’re all right,” she said at once.

Rosier nodded. “Celeste and Evan are well. It’s my uncle.” He scowled again. “I should clarify. That old wanker—I’m sorry,” he muttered, remembering the children. “I said a rude word. Don’t repeat it.” He addressed himself to the adults again. “He’s _well_ enough too. Unfortunately.”

“Why don’t you come in and have a nightcap?” Hermione suggested. She glanced at Madeline and Virgil. “You two should probably go to the sitting room and read or play for a bit while we talk.”

Once the children were settled in the sitting room, the adults filed into the formal dining room. Tom brought out a bottle of brandy and three glasses from the side cabinet, pouring the drink into two of them. Hermione filled hers with cold water, since she was still nursing.

“So what’s the matter?” she asked as they sat down. Crawford Rosier, Vincent’s father, was in the long-term resident ward at St. Mungo’s with severe curse damage, sustained on a recent visit to an ancient South American magical site. His legal documents were last updated when Vincent and Druella were young children, so they had declared Crawford’s significantly younger brother, Florian, head of the family during his incapacity. The uncle had lived in France for all of his adult life, and Hermione was sure that the situation rankled with Vincent.

Rosier scowled again, this time at his drink. He picked it up and took a deep swig, blinking his eyes rapidly as he swallowed. “Well, I always assumed that Uncle Florian was just a useless tosser. He lived in his bachelor pad in Paris and never got married—”

Hermione tried to avoid letting Rosier see what she thought of judging someone for being a bachelor.

“—but I suppose he was actually doing something the whole time… but I’ll get to that in a bit.” He took another sip of his brandy. “He’s bloody _excommunicated_ us from the family—Celeste, Evan, and me—for my political affiliation.”

Tom glowered. “Are you going to be cut off? Can he change your father’s will?”

“No, Father set aside sums for me and Druella—and by the way, she’s joined our uncle in disowning us—and only a part of it is going to Uncle Florian. It’s not about the money, though. Druella is my _twin…_ and Florian’s always been a bit of a wanker, but he is still my _uncle.”_ He gazed at Tom and Hermione. “You want to know what he said?”

“I doubt I do,” Tom said, angry menace in his words, “but let’s hear it anyway.”

“He said that my wife _and son_ and I were even worse than half-bloods and… _Mudbloods,”_ Rosier spat. “His word. Said that wizards and witches like you at least couldn’t help what you were, though you should be ‘put in your rightful place’ or ‘sent out entirely’… but that I’m _choosing_ to work for you and be in our faction and that’s ‘infinitely worse.’”

Tom clenched his glass. “Repulsive as it is to be told that Hermione and I, of _all_ people, have no place in the wizarding world, it’s nothing new. I hope your father recovers and curses the prick back to France. What were you going to say he did there?”

“Well, first he made reference to some arsehole in Russia who was going to ‘cleanse’ the wizarding community there—”

Tom smirked. _“Did_ he now.”

Rosier blinked. “It wasn’t just my uncle’s drunk talk. You took him out—the Russian. That’s what the problem was.”

Tom smiled. “Classified information, Rosier, but yes. Unfortunately for your uncle.”

Rosier chuckled. “Good. He won’t be happy to hear that at all.”

“You know,” Tom remarked, a glint of menace in his eye, “I could _easily_ have him detained as a collaborator with foreign criminals, based on that information. That would solve your problems.” The very tip of his tongue almost imperceptibly slid out of his mouth, as if to lick his lips.

“I don’t think that would be wise, politically,” Hermione put in at once, before that idea took hold of Tom.

He blinked, and a look of disappointment came over his face as he realized she was correct.

“I think the blood-purity movement is growing on the Continent,” Rosier continued. “He said that he’s good friends with Abraxas Malfoy, and you know Malfoy knows people everywhere. He made this veiled threat about Malfoy—Malfoy apparently wants to ‘restore the wizarding world to its former greatness,’ or some such rubbish.”

“You think Malfoy is going to back another challenger?” Tom asked. “Or is _that_ why Crouch never resigned? He’s going to have another go?”

“Oh, if my uncle is representative of them, Crouch is in the doghouse with the blood Isolationists now. They think he should have tried to peel away the ‘renegade’ Isolationists who support you instead of seeking votes from the Reformists. I think it’s going to be Malfoy himself… but… you said no politics,” Rosier remembered.

Tom chuckled, pouring himself another glass.

Hermione decided to speak up. “You’re feeling betrayed by your father, I suspect.”

Rosier glanced at her briefly and then burst out, “I can’t _believe_ he was that careless! He hadn’t updated his legal documents since the early 1930s! I cannot imagine that this is what he wanted for the family now. But Druella too. Father was just careless, but she—I hate using the word ‘betrayed,’ but….” He trailed off, looking miserable. “And she’s my _twin,_ Herm—Mrs. Riddle. I know you never got on in school with her, but she is my twin sister. Even when we had our disagreements, we always had _that._ We were family, no matter what… but I guess it was a lie. She won’t even acknowledge me as her brother now, all because of _politics._ We’ve been uninvited from the holiday dinner this year. We’ll have to do it alone now, and Evan doesn’t really understand why his aunt and cousins won’t be seeing him. I can’t—” He broke off.

Everyone at the table remained silent for a moment, as Hermione contemplated what he had said. It must be very disorienting for someone from such an old pureblood family to be disowned and no longer claimed as family, even though it was a temporary situation, limited to the lifespan of the uncle or the mental incapacity of the father.

To Hermione’s surprise, it was Tom who spoke next. She was even more surprised by his words.

“Real family is different,” he declared. He reached for Hermione’s hand and took it, tracing tiny circles on her palm. “My original ‘family’ all left me. Only my mother wanted me to exist at all, and she wouldn’t bother to stay alive for me. My true family is here, in this house… and your true family is composed of the people who haven’t turned you off. They’re the ones you should think about. If your sister changes her mind, then readmit her, but otherwise you have to let her go.”

Rosier sighed. “I know you’re right, but it still bothers me. She’s my sister.” He sipped his drink, apparently not expecting an answer to that.

Tom considered something. “Are we about to have trouble from the Black family yet again?” He paused, briefly smirking. “Politics, but since I asked, you’re allowed.”

Rosier smiled momentarily as well. “I can’t speak for Orion and Walburga, but you can’t assume that Cygnus obeys their dictates. He might choose to act alone, if he gets involves with my sister’s political business at all. And he might not even do that.” He leaned back in his chair and regarded Hermione. “You know… a lot of the old ‘rules’ are different now about witches in that kind of family, and it’s probably down to you, Mrs. Riddle. When we were in school, pureblood wives still didn’t get involved in political business with or without their husbands—even though witches in other strata had been involved for decades. Now, it’s a lot more common, and I think it’s because of the example you have set as the spouse of a Minister.”

In spite of everything, in spite of the fact that it might mean more political frustration for them and a recurrence of Merlin knew what from her old nemesis Druella, Hermione managed a smile at that.

“I really would like to get Abraxas Malfoy for collaboration with foreign criminals in defiance of Ministry policy—and anyone who works with him,” Tom growled. “He _won’t go away._ You would have thought that the exposure of his affair with that Muggle woman would have finished him, but those people”—he glared at Rosier almost accusingly—“appear to consider it his prerogative as a wizard from an old family to have his little personal foibles.”

Hermione sighed, looking down at the table. “Tom, you cannot prosecute your political opponents. _You_ would be the one to look bad if you did that. You’d have to prove that Malfoy knew of the Russians’ plans, and I very much doubt you can. He’s far too smart and careful.”

“Rosier’s uncle—”

“—knew, and seems to have admitted it,” Hermione acknowledged, glancing at Rosier. “But do you really want to pursue _that_ either? The blood-purity movement in Britain and Europe is much bigger than just two wizards, so it would be only a symbolic act if you even got a conviction. Do you want to put Vincent on the spot of publicly having to choose between his family and loyalty to you?”

Rosier shot Hermione a grateful look.

“If they continue this—if Malfoy mounts a challenge and they declare support—he’ll be in that position anyway,” Tom said defiantly.

“Then _you_ won’t have been the one to force that. They will.”

He finished his drink and scowled, aware that she was right.

They sat in silence for a minute before Rosier began to shuffle about in his seat, clearly deciding that it was time for him to leave. Tom noticed the movement and started to rise. Hermione glanced at Rosier.

“If you like, our families can do something for the holidays together.”

Rosier managed a weak smile. “I’ll certainly think about it. Thank you.”


	22. The Fourth Estate, Part I:  Poisoned Quills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After their victories over agents that posed an existential threat to the wizarding world, the Riddles are rather taken aback at the British press’s less-than-enthusiastic response to their deeds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story arc should be only two chapters, including this one. I owe the idea for it to the reviewer [ellioop](http://archiveofourown.org/users/NothingAmiss). I promise, there will be more family one-shots like those at the beginning of this fic. This one just needed to take place right after Subversion.

The juice glass that Tom was holding shattered, sending sharp fragments of glass and a spray of orange juice across the breakfast room. His glare was scarlet, his face white, and his mouth set in rigid lines. He seemed too angry even to speak.

Hermione discreetly waved her wand, sending the pieces of glass back together. She banished the repaired glass to the cabinet and cleaned up the sticky dots of juice, including those that spattered the cover of the Sunday edition of the _Daily Prophet._ In a moving photograph, Abraxas Malfoy sneered as she spelled the stain away.

“I want to send a Howler to that inbred, cheating bastard,” Tom snapped. “He knew—he knew _everything_ that Karkaroff and Dolohov were up to, I am certain—and yet he _dares_ to do this! I want to call him out. He knew, and I am going to tell him that I know all about his associations and he’d better watch out.”

“Tom,” Hermione said, “you _cannot do that_ without evidence. He’d tattle to the press about it and no one would believe that sort of accusation unless you had proof.”

He seethed, but seemed to accept her words.

 _“RIDDLES DEFEAT KILLERS IN EAST”_ blared the lead headline of the _Prophet_ —but right below it was the subtitle, _“Necessity of Their Personal Involvement Questioned.”_ Tom had not given the newspaper any details about what had happened except that he, Hermione, and the teams of Aurors had found the rogue wizards who were behind the string of murders in the Eastern bloc. Even now, no one else knew that Wizarding Seclusion had been temporarily breached in Ukraine, and no one _officially_ knew that the blood-purity movement had infiltrated the Russian magical resistance government for its own sinister purposes. Of course, people such as Florian Rosier—and very likely Abraxas Malfoy—did know about that.

It was therefore even more infuriating that, for some reason—very likely the associates that Malfoy apparently had on the _Prophet’s_ editorial board—the paper had given Malfoy an interview. The second most prominent headline read, _“Malfoy: Riddle Endangered Wizarding Britain by Personally Fighting.”_

It did not get better. On the front page alone were these headlines:

 

_Minister Reportedly Ordered Aurors To Fight Muggles in Russia for Unknown Reason_

_Mrs. Riddle, Aurors Mysteriously Silent About Mission in Ukraine_

_Isolationists Call for Inquiry into Misuse of Ministry Personnel_

_Riddles’ Children Left with Friends while Parents Risked Their Lives_

 

Tom _was_ going to send letters to the Chief Auror and the leader of the Aurors who had fought with him in Russia, demanding that they find out if any of them had leaked the information to the newspaper about the battle with the Muggle KGB. The team had managed to subdue the Muggles without any casualties, neatly modifying their memories afterward. Tom was not sure if the leak had come from a careless Auror who had not meant to reveal anything, or if some source from within Malfoy’s network had told the _Prophet_ and claimed that it had come from an Auror.

The editorial page was no kinder:

 

_Cuffe: Were Riddles Trying To Replicate 1945 Duel and Aftermath?_

_Editorial Board: Riddle Should Govern Wizarding Britain, Not Play Hero Abroad_

_Lovegood: Did Ministry, MACUSA Force Aurors To Perform a Secret Foreign Coup?_

_Black: Mrs. Riddle Has Told Witches To Put Themselves Above Their Families_

 

The last piece was written by Druella Rosier Black. Hermione scowled as she looked at it again. She had long ago relegated Druella’s petty sniping to the past, to childish Hogwarts schoolgirl behavior. She had never really thought that Druella could be capable of _publicly_ attacking her.

 

_Hermione Riddle has been a groundbreaking example for witches, it is often said—a new kind of Ministerial spouse, one with a grand career of her own and a brilliant mind, who is almost as involved with her partner’s political agenda as he is himself. Such are the glowing statements, and it is certainly true that she is something new and different—but, alas, this is a case in which “different” is not good. Mrs. Riddle’s mysterious trip to Eastern Europe, conducted while her husband was himself abroad, is a disgraceful dereliction of her duties as a mother. I also believe, from past knowledge of Mrs. Riddle, that she is a negative influence on her husband, provoking him to take the unnecessary risk of personally intervening in Russia. What self-respecting wizard would not feel obliged to save face if his wife behaved in such a bold manner? It is tantamount to a direct challenge to their masculinity._

_I am in a somewhat unique position of knowing Mrs. Riddle from her youth. In our seventh year, she came to Hogwarts, the cousin of Professor Albus Dumbledore, born to a Squib and a Muggle, kept out of school to avoid the appearance of favoritism but astonishingly well-taught. We shared the seventh year Slytherin dormitory, and it is there that I saw for myself the seeds of personal ambition in then-Hermione Green. Of course, Slytherin is the house of ambitious witches and wizards, but the future Mrs. Riddle—Hermione, as I knew her—had very unusual ambitions for a young Slytherin witch._

_One of the first observations I made was that Hermione brought with her a collection of books all about Dark Magic, which she displayed prominently on her desk. I have reason to suspect that some of these books were not permitted within the walls of Hogwarts. (I cannot answer for whether Professor Dumbledore approved a special exception for her, or whether she concealed them from her cousin.) She put herself forward in class to a shocking degree, impressing the teachers—and apparently Riddle, who sadly, through no fault of his own, did not have the background or breeding to know to scorn such unladylike behavior. I also observed her hurrying into the Slytherin common room, Riddle trailing closely behind her, looking quite flustered…._

 

“At this point,” Tom snarled, “I’m _almost_ accustomed to the attacks on me by that piece of thestral stall liner. Almost. But that hag went after you. She basically said that you seduced me into Dark magic—stupid twat; she has _no_ idea—and that you whored yourself to me for power, and that is just—” He broke off, his eyes flashing in fury.

Hermione folded the newspaper and scowled at it. “I wonder if _this_ is part of why Rosier’s uncle disowned him. Druella must have already written this when she took the uncle’s part in that.”

“I’m sure that it’s all orchestrated, and that Malfoy is the maestro. The question I have is whether the Blacks are part of it. I haven’t had any trouble from them in years, since the Wizengamot vote to reinstate them failed, but perhaps if they think I am weak, they see this as an opportunity.”

She looked away. She did not especially enjoy the thought of Tom retaliating on the Black family yet again, but if they _were_ part of this clique, they had entered the fray themselves….

“I think I am going to ignore this drivel,” she declared. “We all know that the Rosiers probably practice the Dark Arts, and the Blacks _definitely_ do, so Druella’s only real attacks on me are that I was vocal in class because I knew the answers, that I have public ambitions, and that I’m attracted to you—and none of those things are attacks at all. Her rubbish is unworthy of a formal response.”

“As far as I’m concerned, practicing—let alone reading about—Dark magic isn’t an attack either,” Tom said slyly. “But I agree otherwise. Just ignore it. She was always jealous of you and I’m guessing she still is.”

Hermione sighed. Druella’s vicious, misogynistic editorial had upset and angered her, certainly, but what bothered her more were some of the other headlines.

“ _Riddles’ Children Left with Friends while Parents Risked Their Lives.”_ It was hard not to hear the accusations of Verochka Andropova playing in her memories once again as she skimmed the piece.

 _“Were Riddles Trying To Replicate 1945 Duel and Aftermath?”_ Perhaps, on some level, it was true, Hermione thought unhappily. The press was certainly sniping at Tom before they went, and his current political weakness was in part due to her own actions covertly trying to bribe the Wizengamot into giving him a scare.

Had she been wrong to go? Had this been her own “saving people moment” gone too far? Hermione had been determined—perhaps to the point of recklessness—to go because of the involvement of children in the picture. But had she been reckless about her own children? She had not seriously considered the possibility that she might die, but it had obviously been real. It was Tom’s own analysis, in fact. And if the worst had happened, what then? _Tom_ would have survived, technically, but what if something had happened to his body that had prevented him from reviving it? The children basically _would_ have been orphaned. She and Tom had not actually designated a legal guardian in the case of their deaths (or apparent death, in his case), because Tom would not entertain the thought. The wizarding world believed Dumbledore was her legal next of kin. That was what would have happened, then. It wasn’t terrible—but perhaps, Hermione thought with regret, they really shouldn’t have risked it.

Could the Aurors have taken care of the problem themselves? In Ukraine… probably. It might have even ended better if she had not been present, Hermione thought with a pang—though Andropova might have baited anyone. In Russia… hard to say. Grindelwald manifestly could not have handled both Karkaroff and Dolohov himself, and he might not have even come if Tom hadn’t been there. The traitors might have escaped without two master Dark wizards present to fight them, loath as Hermione was to admit it.

 _I meant to do good,_ Hermione thought, watching out of the corner of one eye as Tom left the room. _Even if I thought, in the back of my mind, that Tom and I might benefit from this—though obviously we have not—that wasn’t my primary motive, and I don’t think it was his either. We wanted to protect wizards. I wanted to help children. I had the idea that I was going to find some missing children and successfully negotiate for their release. If I had heard of a specific danger to my life in getting involved, I wouldn’t have gone. I meant well, so did Tom, and these awful headlines don’t acknowledge that for either of us._

* * *

That afternoon, Tom and Hermione decided to take the children to Diagon Alley to take their minds off the whirlwind that was apparently going to hit on Monday morning. Two years ago, a wizarding restaurant had opened near Flourish and Blotts that had not been there in Hermione’s teen years, whether because it had closed by then or had never opened in the first place in that timeline. In sharp contrast with the Leaky Cauldron, the Isle of Apples served uniformly good food. It was mid-range in price and formality, and it boasted a peaceful atmosphere, unlike the raucous and somewhat shifty Cauldron.

The Riddles were seated in a relatively secluded alcove of the restaurant, where they would not attract as much attention. The restaurant brought a baby seat for Cynthia, though her mother had prepared a bottle of her own milk. That was one thing Hermione was glad of, that the wizarding world did not relentlessly promote artificial baby formula to mothers. Madeline sat upright in her chair, primly reading the menu with lips pursed thoughtfully. It was deeply amusing to Hermione, but she would not laugh.

Virgil tugged at her sleeve. She glanced at him, eyebrows raised.

“Might I look?” he asked quietly.

He did not have a menu in front of him. Hermione set hers down. “I doubt you can read all the words, but you may certainly try! Do you want to order something different?”

He thought about it before shaking his head. “I just wanted to try to read it. Unless I could try a bite of your food?”

“You’re welcome to.”

They ordered their food shortly. As they were waiting for it to arrive, Hermione noticed that Tom was discreetly eyeing a woman who was seated at a small table by herself in the same quiet alcove, though on the other side. She too glanced at the witch. The woman was blonde and wore a soft-looking black woolen robe of the style that was very popular in winter, basically resembling a long overcoat but with a cut more similar to wizard’s robes: fitted around the torso, flowing past the waist. Hermione wondered for a moment why this witch had not had her winter robe-coat taken by the wait staff. Then she noticed that the woman had a small, empty salad bowl in front of her—and a steaming flagon of some kind of toddy. Two empty cocktail glasses sat on the table already. Evidently, the witch had come here primarily to drink, but preferred not to do so at the bar in the center of the more public area of the restaurant. She looked very unhappy.

Hermione quickly looked away and raised an eyebrow at Tom. He shook his head at once, clearly not even wanting to whisper about the woman while she was still in the restaurant.

Their food arrived. As she had promised, Hermione allowed Virgil to try her meal. He took a single bite of her quail and held it in his mouth thoughtfully before deciding, apparently, that he liked the taste. Amused, Hermione continued with her food, listening to the children chatter about a supposed doxy infestation in a room in Rosier’s home (Hermione was not sure she believed that, as the Rosiers did keep a house-elf) and occasionally feeding the baby. It was a pleasant interlude from politics and the ugliness that no doubt awaited them tomorrow.

A waiter presented the blonde witch with her bill. She paid it and quickly rose, slightly unsteady on her feet.

“Do you need assistance, Mrs. Malfoy?” the waiter asked discreetly—but not so quietly that Tom and Hermione missed it. Hermione gazed at him with wide eyes. He smiled back knowingly. Clearly he had recognized her.

“No thank you,” Priscilla Malfoy said. “I am quite all right.” She gave the waiter a false smile and limped out of the restaurant, not noticing the Riddles at all.

* * *

“If it’s Malfoy behind all this,” Tom mused that night, “I _could_ mention the fact that his wife is a lush. Of course,” he reflected, “that won’t win me many friends. It’s apparently just peachy for the press to attack _you,_ because you have a career, but socialites and housewitches are off limits.”

Hermione shot him a disapproving look. “She might have a reason to want to drink. Malfoy _did_ cheat on her, and the entire wizarding public knows it. You would do better to attack _him,_ if you can get something else concrete about him.”

“I know.”

“Or perhaps you should just tell the press what was happening in the East,” she suggested. “No one outside the security team knows that Seclusion was violated, and no one outside the security team—or, I suppose, the conspiracy itself—knows what was happening in St. Petersburg.”

Tom instantly dismissed that. “It’s classified information, and it would start a panic if I released it. People would be terrified of the fact that the resistance governments could not stop these rogue wizards on their own. It would remind them of the war against Grindelwald—and frankly, we’re very fortunate that no one mentioned his name in association with this. Perhaps it’s because everyone heard about wizards being killed rather than Muggles. It shouldn’t happen now that I’ve given a statement that the murderers were found and killed in combat.  Anyway, if I said that the _Russian leader himself_ and his second were betraying their population? And that a _Muggle-born_ witch in Ukraine had purposely breached Seclusion?” He smiled darkly. “People would panic over how vulnerable they actually are—how _easy_ it would be for magic to be exposed.”

“It’s not exactly a secret that Seclusion is fragile.”

“People don’t like to think about it, though.”

* * *

_The next day._

Cameras snapped and flashed in Tom’s face. He stood behind the podium, glowering at the assembled reporters. Hermione stood next to him, blinking from the lights.

“Minister!” called one reporter. “What, _exactly,_ is the story with this allegation that the Aurors were used to fight Muggles?”

Tom stared at the reporter. “While searching for the killers, we encountered a group of armed Muggles that sought to impede us. The Aurors didn’t harm them.”

“To impede you? Were they part of the Muggle state?”

“Next question,” Tom said loudly over the reporter’s question, but everyone still heard it. Tom pointed at another reporter balefully.

The journalist stared out with a defiant look. “My question concerns Mrs. Riddle. Why, exactly, was she put in charge of a detachment of Aurors? She isn’t even a Ministry employee.”

“Of course my wife doesn’t _work for me!”_ Tom snapped, unable to keep the malice out of his voice. Next to him, Hermione closed her eyes momentarily, then quickly opened them again. “She is, however, a member of my security team. And since the Aurors report directly to me, I have the authority to direct them to follow her.”

The members of the press were eagerly transcribing this. Hermione had the sudden impression of a pool of hungry sharks.

“But why—”

“Next question.”

“Why was _she_ in charge of the Ukraine operation?” the reporter insisted, talking over the din surrounding her. “This concern about your family—why risk orphaning your children?”

Tom glared at her. “You overstep yourself to speculate about my wife dying,” he snarled, barely repressing himself from taking out his wand and blasting the reporter with a curse.

Another journalist chimed in. “It’s a fair question, Minister, if crassly phrased. Why needlessly go into danger yourselves, either of you?”

“We were given incomplete information,” he said tightly. “The Ukrainian magical authorities did not tell my wife that the person kidnapping children was also killing their parents with magic until she was _there.”_

That was a brazen lie of omission, Hermione thought. They indeed had not known whether the murders were magical, but they had definitely known there were killings. Several of the journalists raised their eyebrows at it as well. “Are you implying that they led her into a trap?” one asked.

“I am certainly _not,_ but they wouldn’t tell us anything until she was physically there, demanding to know.”

Hermione could see the headline in her mind’s eye already: _Minister Blames Allies!_

“Then why send her?” the reporter persisted.

Seeing that this was rapidly going downhill, Hermione moved forward to the podium. “My husband exaggerates… slightly,” she said, trying to sound conciliatory. “We were told that there were disappearances in Kiev. I went, with Aurors protecting me, to try to help the Ukrainian government locate the missing children. That’s what we believed the situation was.”

“That’s right,” Tom said harshly. “I gave the Aurors firm instructions not to let her duel anyone without support, but it happened anyway.”

There was a collective gasp. “You’re blaming the Aurors?” someone asked amid a din of voices, but Tom did not choose to acknowledge that. He glared murderously at the reporter who had just peppered them with questions and pointed at another one. _“Next question.”_

Unfortunately for them, this fellow was not about to let the subject go. “Minister, the thing is, this is all very unusual. Your wife says that she believed ‘the situation’ meant missing children, but that it was more. I think it’s fair to ask just what was happening abroad.”

There were nods and murmurs of agreement from the pool of journalists. Hermione met his eyes, trying to will him to tell the full story, so that these people would properly appreciate why it was a matter for the head of government himself.

“In St. Petersburg, a pair of wizards were murdering other wizards of whom they disapproved,” Tom said coldly. “It had created an atmosphere of fear and distrust. In Ukraine, a witch was abducting children she believed to be at risk of being killed.”

“But we in the press all believed that the killings were happening across the Eastern bloc.”

“They were. The murderers in question had a… large theatre of operations.”

“But why did that warrant _your_ personal involvement—and that of Mrs. Riddle?” the man persisted. “It’s a terrible thing, and we’re all glad it’s sorted out, but—”

 _Please just explain it,_ Hermione thought, trying to meet Tom’s eyes so that he might read her thought.

He did not. “The situation had undermined the stability of the magical resistance governments in the view of their constituencies. They needed allied support. Next question.”

A smirking young reporter stepped up. “This investigation into misuse of Ministry resources that the Isolationist faction has proposed.”

“Correction,” Tom interrupted. Hermione did not want to look, but she feared that his eyes were currently gleaming red. His voice was cryogenically cold with suppressed rage. “The _entire_ Isolationist faction does not support such a thing. It is a scheme of Abraxas Malfoy.”

“Well,” the reporter smirked, “Mr. Malfoy has not proposed it himself. It is the suggestion of Faustus Yaxley.”

“Don’t insult my intelligence. Malfoy is the leader of the Isolationist faction.”

The reporter chuckled, evidently pleased at the reaction he was getting from the Minister. “But if it should begin… will you cooperate?”

Tom’s jaw twitched. He waited a moment before speaking, a moment that hung over the room like a curse on the way to its target.

“There has been no misuse of Ministry resources,” Tom bit off. “I invoked Section Six of the Magical Security Act, declaring a state of emergency. I was fully within my rights to send the Aurors and members of my security team to the East, as well as to go myself. _If_ the rest of the Wizengamot approves an inquiry, it will find that to be the case.”

“Minister, we understand why you kept national secrets during the emergency,” another reporter called out, “but now that it’s over….”

“No further questions. The conference is concluded.” Tom grabbed Hermione’s hand and stormed away from the podium, through a side door, and into a warren of private corridors that ultimately led to his office.

He collapsed at his Ministerial desk, folding his arms over the desktop and laying his head down. Even though Hermione was exasperated with him for allowing that to get so out of control, and visibly losing his cool in front of the entire assembled wizarding press, she still felt terrible for him. He knew it had gone badly too.

“Tom,” she said, edging over to the desk. She put a hand on top of his dark head.

He lifted his head and gazed up at her, eyes wounded and actually rather frightened. _He knows this might cost him his seat,_ she realized with a swoop. She moved to sit on the desktop, but he took her around the waist and pulled her into his lap instead.

 _Why didn’t you just tell them the truth?_ she wanted to ask him—but now was not the time. He had brewed up a storm, and they both knew it was going to hit with the force of a hurricane.

 _He “defeats” Grindelwald in a staged performance, after colluding with Grindelwald for months, and that launches his career. He arranges for the release of Grindelwald, and that vaults him into the Minister’s office. He goes to Russia to defeat a very real threat, and it might end up costing him everything._ The twisted irony—and unfairness—of it stung in Hermione’s throat as they embraced silently.

* * *

The headlines were every bit as bad as Hermione had feared.

 

_In Disastrous Press Conference, Minister Blames Allies, Aurors for His Decisions_

_Malfoy: I Did Not Call for Inquiry; Minister Is “Obsessed”_

_Poll: Broad Consensus That Mrs. Riddle Should Have Stayed; 35 Percent Entertain Quibbler’s Coup Theory_

_Editorial: Minister Riddle Should Come Clean About Whatever He Is Hiding_

 

Hermione tried to shield the children from this as well as she could. She was briefly tempted to take a leave of absence and stay at home with them, instead of bringing them into the playroom where they might hear other children saying distressing things, but the memory of Druella Black’s editorial banished that idea from her mind. She would hold her head up high, go to _her_ office, and head _her_ organization.

Besides, if Tom did get voted out of office, she would need to have an alternative vocation for him in the immediate near term.

Meanwhile, Tom had a different set of thoughts about the unfolding disaster. He would not let this take down his brilliant career—not when he had been Minister for barely a year and a half! He had too much to do yet, and none of these useless people deserved to succeed him. Over a third of the public believed Lovegood’s ridiculous assertion that he had used the Aurors to displace a foreign leader he merely disliked! That proved that many, many people were far too stupid to deserve any power to influence politics. Still… the press conference had not gone well. He recognized that fact. Perhaps, he thought, he should have put his foot down and insisted that someone else go to Ukraine instead of Hermione, since a lot of this seemed to be over her involvement and the assumption that she had no business being involved in international security as the “mere” spouse of the Minister.

 _This is all orchestrated by Malfoy,_ Tom thought in his home office that evening, a bottle of firewhisky beside the cutout photograph of Malfoy that he was ritually stabbing and hexing as stress relief. _All of it. He knew about the Russians, and this is an elaborate revenge ploy for our foiling them. He is the one having the press go after Hermione—brilliant, successful, brave, a powerful witch, and a good mother. Such a contrast with his boozer of a wife and his Muggle mistress._

There were brief moments when he was thoroughly sick of presenting himself as just another Minister for Magic, and instead rather wished he could simply kill his enemies and declare himself the deathless Lord of the Wizarding Nation. He knew Hermione would not like him saying that; that fantasy was too similar to her old timeline. And it wasn’t that Tom wished he had taken that path now, but he and his family _were_ superior to those who took advantage of their freedom to torment him, especially those pathetic _Daily Prophet_ flacks who probably did not even know what they were aiding and abetting….

An idea suddenly occurred to Tom, and a dark smile spread across his handsome face.

* * *

Hermione stared at Tom in dismay. What was wrong with him these days? He was barely rational since they had returned from the Eastern bloc and the press started shooting at them. He was instead lashing out almost like… she hated to think it, but almost like Voldemort.

“Tom,” she said slowly, making sure to keep her voice calm and measured, “this is a really bad idea. Remember seventh year and the Propaganda Restriction Act? We were opposed to it.”

He opened his mouth to interrupt, but she didn’t let him. She had long ago suspected that he had not been sincerely in favor of freedom of the press during that fracas, but had opposed Septimus Weasley’s bill because he wanted certain ideas in print, and also because _she_ was definitely against the bill on principle and he wanted her on his side. But now, she had an additional argument, one of pragmatism rather than principle.

“The Wizengamot absolutely will not approve a proposal to limit the press’s right to criticize the Ministry during states of emergency—and if you call for it right now, with all this going on, there will be blowback against you.”

He stared back at her, fury in his eyes—but not fury at her.

She took a deep breath. “In fact, if you call for this, that could be the impetus for the Wizengamot to remove you. There wouldn’t even have to be a ‘campaign’ like there was with Crouch. They could just appoint someone else.”

The anger in his visage changed to desperation, helplessness, and a degree of despair.

She moved toward him and placed a hand on his arm. “Tom, please, don’t do it.”

He swallowed. “I don’t know what else to do. Malfoy has stacked the editorial board.”

“It’s not that I don’t believe you, but… you can prove that?”

“I can’t prove that he did it, no, but I’ve looked into the members. Except for bloody _Cuffe,_ who’s just a trend-chaser, they’re all cronies of Malfoy, the Yaxleys, the Crabbes, Arcturus Black… that crowd.”

“Arcturus Black is involved again?”

Tom hesitated. “I don’t know. Cygnus seems to be. But Rosier tells me that Arcturus’s son, Orion, is probably not.”

“Interesting.” Hermione recalled her incognito discussion with Orion Black while soliciting his support for Caspar Crouch. He had said he was not an enemy of Tom’s. Perhaps it was true.

She focused on the rest of Tom’s information. “I concede that it’ll be very difficult to prove that Malfoy is the puppetmaster, but there is a lot of circumstantial evidence for it with a board like that. What you need to do, instead of calling for the press to be restricted, is to position yourself as its champion.”

Tom thought about that for a moment. “I… see what you mean. Name names on the board of the _Daily Prophet,_ and imply that _they_ are the ones limiting the freedom of the press by pressuring the reporters to write articles favorable to their political agenda.”

“Or have other people do it,” Hermione advised. “You yourself shouldn’t.”

He winced, clearly preferring to personally settle scores, but did not argue the point. “And maybe I should talk to Slughorn. He is still on good terms with Cuffe, last I heard.”

“There you go,” she urged. “You _need_ people like Cuffe and the other reporters, the ones who aren’t owned by Malfoy. They may not be your friends, but they can be your temporary allies.”

He managed a forced smile, but it was also a concession that she was right, and she knew it. Her face softened, and she walked toward him to embrace him.

* * *

_The next day._

“Well,” Tom remarked, “this is unexpected.” He set down the newspaper with a smirk.

“I’ve already confirmed that Orion and Cygnus are at odds,” Vincent Rosier said. His facial expression seemed to be alternating between smug triumph and pained discomfort. Hermione and Tom supposed that they could see why he would be torn about a rift in another ancient pureblood family.

The morning edition of that day’s _Daily Prophet_ lay spread across the table where they were having a quick brunch. On the editorial page, at the very top, was an eloquent piece by Orion Black: _“Stay the Course: Riddle’s Policies Have Been Good for Wizarding Britain.”_

The editorial was a defense of Tom’s domestic and foreign program. Predictably, Black had not lavished his strongest praise on the policy of granting Squib rights to the families of Muggle-borns. However, he did approve of the fostering and adoption program, the law permitting the Ministry to make magic-hating families friendly to the magical children in their care, and—especially—the Wizarding Renaissance. Orion was very firm in his stance that more wizarding children were better, and he had reserved his most glowing language for that policy.

This time, it was Hermione who was forcing a grimace on her face. Her own words from the previous day replayed in her memory: _You need people like that. They may not be your friends, but they can be your temporary allies._ Tom caught her eye and smirked briefly, just for her. _Bloody Legilimens,_ she thought, but with affection.

Tom folded the newspaper. “I suppose I should reach out to him,” he said, the idea sounding foreign to his own mind. “The timing of this cannot be coincidental.”

“It’s not,” Rosier confirmed. “He doesn’t like one bit what Druella wrote. He thinks it was petty and trashy… not to mention hypocritical. And I’m not sure what this is about… but I don’t think he wants Malfoy for Minister either.”

“That’s interesting,” Hermione mused. “Why not? Do you know?” She tried to remember what Sirius had told her from the other timeline. Weren’t his parents in support of Death Eater ideas even though they had not been in the organization themselves? Of course, there was a third faction now….

“I have had some crossover support from avowed Isolationists,” Tom remarked. “They don’t identify with us Nationalists, and they don’t agree with everything I do, but they really are more committed to the Statute of Secrecy than they are to excluding everyone who isn’t a pureblood. They may not want half-bloods and Squib descendants to be treated the same as purebloods, but they recognize that hostile or exploitative Muggles are the true threat and that no witch or wizard should be left to their tender mercies.” He frowned contemplatively. “I wouldn’t have thought it until now, but Orion may have become one of those.”

Rosier considered what Tom had said. “Yes, that could be it.”

Hermione swallowed her dislike for the Wizarding Renaissance policy once more. “So—reach out to Black. Reach out to Cuffe. Involve Slughorn. Get people talking about Malfoy’s influence over the _Daily Prophet.”_ She narrowed her eyes at Tom. “And I know you don’t want to hear this, but you need to make another statement—or speech—or _something_ about what happened in the East.”

He grimaced, knowing what was coming.

“You need to do it, and you need to be _Ministerial_ about it, and you need to explain what the threat that we defeated actually was. Even with Black’s support, even if we call out the _Prophet_ board, this will not stop unless you do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bit about Malfoy’s wife is not a loose thread. There is another shoe to drop.
> 
> On an unrelated note, I’ve made a slight edit to chapter 11 (Tom proposes modifying the views of magic-haters with children) to include a detail from _Fantastic Beasts_. I didn’t take anything out; I just added a quick reference to Obscurials. I am not going to edit this story or _Choosing Grey_ if anything in film canon about Grindelwald’s agenda conflicts with my AU, though so far this AU has a stunning degree of accord. I just wanted to include that one concept because it works so well.
> 
> And WHOA. When I first had my idea of how to bring the character back to relevance after Tom arranges his escape, a part of me thought that it was, although satisfying (it gives him the chance to atone through deeds), maybe a little implausible for him to run a government under a fake identity. Er. WELL.


	23. The Fourth Estate, Part II:  The Minister's Speech

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom’s angry press conference has left him in quite a political hole, and Hermione has been attacked with him. They have to plot how to dig themselves out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** This chapter contains non-graphical references to miscarriage and domestic violence. They do _not_ involve Tom or Hermione, but I’m warning anyway because these topics can be upsetting to people.

“Very well, then.” Tom rose from his chair along with Orion Black, who was wearing a very satisfied smile on his face.

Black had just received a written, magically binding promise from the Minister to support his renewed bid for reinstatement to the Wizengamot—but Riddle being Riddle, the Minister had been very exacting in what he asked for in return.

_“You’re an Isolationist. I know you don’t support everything I have done, and I’m not fool enough to expect it from you in future. And while I will appreciate your support, certainly, the mere verbal support of one wizard is not enough for me to put someone on the Wizengamot who will sometimes be an adversary.”_

Orion had expected nothing less, but he had come to this meeting prepared. His sister Lucretia was also there, as was her best friend, Priscilla Malfoy. There was something that Mrs. Malfoy wanted to do, but she had been unwilling to do it for fear that it would result in her being socially ostracized and punished by the legal system. With the support of the head of the Black family, the very wealthy Ignatius Prewett, and the Minister for Magic himself—to say nothing of the Minister’s entire political faction—she had mustered the nerve to do it.

Mrs. Malfoy had also given Tom what he wanted to know about the _Daily Prophet_ editorial board.

* * *

Hermione shook Professor Slughorn’s hand with a smile on her face.

“I really do apologize for things being so bad,” Slughorn exclaimed. “If I’d had any idea it was that desperate….”

“It’s hardly your fault… Horace,” Hermione said. It still felt awkward to call the man by his given name.

Slughorn sipped his ever-present drink. “Well, I was friends with Abraxas. I had no idea that he was behind this _Prophet_ smear campaign. Politics is a loathsome line of work.”

Hermione gave him a tight smile. _That it is,_ she thought, but she did not want to tell him something that might be used against her later. Slughorn himself wouldn’t deliberately hurt them, but the man could not be trusted with confidences if he had too much to drink.

“Cuffe will be given top priority at the next press conference, and will cover it _fairly,”_ Hermione confirmed. “And in exchange—”

“I’ll get him a job at _The New York Ghost_ if Malfoy’s people retaliate,” Slughorn repeated.

Hermione nodded. “I hope it won’t be necessary, of course. Tom is hopeful that the support of Orion Black will lessen Malfoy’s influence somewhat… but in case it isn’t enough….”

“I understand perfectly, Hermione. These are mad times we live in.”

 _You have no idea,_ Hermione thought. She had not told Slughorn about the near-disaster in Russia and Eastern Europe. Tom would have to reveal the truth of what they had done, and she was sure that it would disturb and upset the Deputy Headmaster much more than the realization— _and honestly, how could he not have known already? How oblivious is the man?_ she wondered—that his “friend” Abraxas Malfoy was behind the newspaper attack on his two favorite former students.

* * *

Tom did not usually avail himself of the green marble tub in the master bathroom, preferring instead the efficiency of their shower. Although he certainly had a taste for grandeur and luxury, he did not have the inclination to be idle. The shower got him clean, and he did not need to loaf in a fancy tub with perfumed water and bubbles. However, tonight he wanted to use the bathtub. _It’s almost as if I want to soak away the dirt of what I did—and heard—today,_ he thought.

Hermione was seated at her desk. When she heard him start to run water in the fancy bath, she was surprised. He must have had a long day, to want to do this, she mused… _poor_ thing, to have to make deals with people he disliked…. The slight tinge of sarcasm in her thoughts fled. They really were having a rough time of it, and in this case it was largely undeserved. But at least they had made plans to begin to turn things around.

Tom emerged shortly from the bathroom, his hair dry but disheveled. He was garbed in a robe—a wizarding robe, but one cut for sleepwear.

“I didn’t want to mention this in front of the children,” he remarked, turning around to face her. “But… there will be a big news story about Malfoy that will break tomorrow—whether his toadies on the _Prophet_ like it or not—and there are some very ugly things in it. I wanted to warn you.”

She marked her place on the papers at the desk, got up, and went over to the bedside where he stood. She touched his chest, stroking lightly. “I assumed you got something big when you mentioned that Lucretia Prewett and Mrs. Malfoy were also there, and that Mrs. Malfoy gave you documentation of Abraxas’s bribes to the newspaper editors.”

They both sat down on the mattress. “It’s definitely big, and it’s very unpleasant,” he confirmed.

“Are you going to give me any hints?”

He glowered, though not at her. “I hate even mentioning the subject matter, to be honest.”

She quirked a brow at him. “Well, then, why did you? You have to tell me now.”

He nodded grimly. “Malfoy has abused her. I don’t know all the details—they will be in the news, I assume—but he has, and she’s going to make him pay for it. She just needed support.”

Hermione scowled deeply at that idea. “Good. If that’s what has happened—and if she herself is innocent—then I hope she does make him pay. I _told_ you that you shouldn’t make an issue of her drinking, and I’m glad you didn’t. What is she going to do?”

“Legal separation at a minimum, and if Black and the Prewetts can talk her into more, then possibly more.”

Hermione’s eyes were wide. “Among _that_ set? That’s….” She trailed off.

“Quite. I hope it will finish Malfoy as a public presence, but even if it doesn’t, it’ll be a negative story about someone other than us.”

“But once that story is no longer in the news, you’ll need to clarify what happened in the East, because they _will_ return to that eventually otherwise.”

The grimace on his face transformed into an overt frown. “I’m just afraid of the cost of exposing it—especially the business in Ukraine. A Muggle-born betraying Secrecy because of Muggle political values? Malfoy’s people would pounce on that.”

“Then let the Reformists attempt to defend it,” she said hotly. “Do you know what she said to me? She said that this faction, yours, ours, was the most adamant of all about defending the Statute of Secrecy—and it’s true! The Isolationists would leave anyone who isn’t a pureblood to the Muggles, with all the risks that entails. The Reformists would tell the Prime Minister about us, leave children in hostile Muggle homes, and keep Muggle-born families—Squibs— _in_ the Muggle world, constantly exposed to those Muggle values.” She took a deep breath as something else occurred to her, a memory from her visit to Merlin and Arthur’s during the Crouch campaign. “I’ve also heard more than one Reformist object to the resistance governments severing contact with the Muggles, because they don’t see the threat that Muggle Communism poses to our people.”

Tom was listening intently, and at the same time, he was staring at Hermione, clothed as she was in a loose nightgown that looked like it should be pulled right off her. It was very convenient, he reflected, to pay attention to someone when he had every motive to do so in the first place….

“So what happened there is not _ours_ to explain. Your policies didn’t cause it. Even a foreign version of your policies didn’t cause it. And let the Isolationists grapple with Karkaroff and Dolohov. They definitely own them—either by actually colluding with them in secret, or supporting the same blood-purist views. The only reason she did what she did was because of _their_ actions. We are not the ones culpable. We _solved_ the problem.” She was fired up.

“You’re quite right, and I do like it when you get exercised about _our_ issues.”

 _Ours,_ she thought. _Our issues. Yes, he really does like having me as a partner. I’m sure that, after learning whatever he learned today about the Malfoys, the contrast is especially stark._

“I’m exercised about it because it is _our_ issue.” She wrapped her arms around him, meeting his lips in a heated kiss as they tumbled into bed.

* * *

The news story about Malfoy was worse than Hermione had expected. She actually wondered for a moment about the _Daily Prophet_ ’s ethics in printing all of these details—before recalling that this was, in fact, the _Daily Prophet._

 

_Priscilla Malfoy To Divorce Husband Abraxas, Alleges Shocking Abuse!_

 

_Priscilla Malfoy, wife of leading Isolationist Abraxas Malfoy, has taken the almost unprecedented step of filing for divorce and full custody of their son Lucius. In addition to citing her husband’s widely known infidelity with a Muggle woman, for which Malfoy was fined for violation of the Statute of Secrecy, Mrs. Malfoy alleges in her lawsuit that her husband engaged in forms of abuse that are quite shocking against a magical person._

_According to the lawsuit, filed with the Family Law Committee of the Wizengamot, Abraxas Malfoy routinely deprived her of her wand in their home. He also locked her in her apartments at Malfoy Manor, refusing to allow her to see her son or leave the manor—or even to visit other parts of the house to which she had a legal right, according to the terms of the marriage contract. The lawsuit also states that Malfoy hexed and cursed her when he was displeased with her, inflicting serious injury at times, even though he had taken her own wand away so that she could not defend herself in a domestic fracas._

_Worst of all, Mrs. Malfoy’s suit alleges that Mr. Malfoy caused two miscarriages in the past year by means of the Bruising Curse. Although Mrs. Malfoy would not speak personally to the Prophet, her lawsuit and legal representative state that Mr. Malfoy was determined to have only one child without regard for her own wishes—or the new law of the British Wizarding World. Although the Wizarding Renaissance Law only controls access to the potions ingredient used to safely terminate pregnancies, and does not prohibit induced miscarriage by means of curses, such a procedure is extremely dangerous and painful. As a result, existing laws already made it illegal to force termination of a pregnancy upon an unwilling witch._

_Mr. Malfoy himself denied all allegations of abuse. However, Mrs. Malfoy’s attorney, Ceridwyn Fawley, states that her client has provided evidence in the form of bottled memories that she intends to show to the Family Law Committee when the divorce case is heard._

_“Malfoy followed a long pattern of misogyny that is unfortunately common in his family history,” Fawley stated to the Prophet. “He himself has admitted that the family prefers sons, refusing to allow elder daughters to inherit, which I would like to point out is an obsolete Muggle custom. Although there is no reason to think that the family itself promotes abuse of women, this history of disregarding witches undoubtedly led him to believe that he could abuse my client and even deprive her of her wand.”_

_Although divorce has been permitted by Wizarding law for years, it is very uncommon for members of old families such as the Malfoy family to divorce. It is even more unusual for a parent to request full custody of a child. Nonetheless, Mrs. Malfoy’s case has already acquired support from certain influential quarters. Mr. Orion Black, head of the Black family, has stated his confidence in Mrs. Malfoy’s claims and his support for her cause. The family of Ignatius Prewett, Director of the Curse-Breaking Division of Gringotts Bank and brother-in-law to Black, has also declared support._

_“I’ve seen the memories myself,” Black said in a statement to the Prophet. “It’s shocking and terrible to have to believe this of a longtime friend of the family, but Priscilla is a friend of the family too. This is an absolutely unacceptable way to treat a pureblood witch and we are fully behind her legal case.”_

_Hearings on the Malfoy divorce case will begin in January._

 

Hermione folded the newspaper. As excited as she was that Abraxas Malfoy was the one embroiled in a scandal—and that this one appeared likely to actually hurt him, unlike the Muggle mistress scandal—she felt guilty about finding anything to be happy about when another witch had been treated in such an abominable way.

There was something else, too. Hermione had been aware that Tom’s awful law did not prohibit witches from self-terminating with Dark Arts curses, but she had assumed that no one would actually try to do such a thing and would instead seek to get the silphium plant on the black market or sneak it into Britain from abroad. Mrs. Malfoy had not done it, either; apparently she had _wanted_ two more children—and it was deeply unsettling, in a certain way, to realize that Lucius Malfoy should have had at least two siblings—but was it really any worse to force an unwanted miscarriage than to force an unwanted pregnancy? Hermione supposed that it might be a _bit_ worse; the victim of a forced miscarriage would have lost a wanted child, but they both were rather bad to Hermione’s thinking. Since Tom had no real problem with one of the two things, and in fact had _done it_ to her (even though she did want Cynthia once she knew she was pregnant), it irked her a bit that he was going to benefit from this news.

Well, Tom was a hypocrite. That was hardly news to Hermione. He had been a hypocrite every time he sent someone to Azkaban for murder as Law Enforcement Head. He _did_ have a problem with forcing unwanted termination on a witch, though. His thoughts were probably rather like Orion Black’s, in fact, but applied to any witch instead of just pureblood ones. And she noticed that he had, very wisely, kept _his_ support for Mrs. Malfoy out of the article. The last thing the poor woman needed was for her personal trauma and laudable act of courage to be openly politicized.

Of course, it probably would be anyway, but _they_ should not attempt to openly capitalize. Malfoy had—not exactly been given the proverbial rope with which to hang himself, but he had certainly acted in such a way for which he would now pay the price. That would happen irrespective of anything the Riddles or the Wizarding Nationalists might do, and in fact, it would probably only hurt them—to say nothing of Mrs. Malfoy—if they did attempt to capitalize publicly.

Tom held a faction meeting in the Serpents’ Chalice that afternoon, before work hours were officially ended, to discuss Malfoy and the steps forward.

“Of course, we are not going to gloat about this news,” he remarked to his cronies across their usual table. “If we’re questioned, we’ll condemn the behavior and support Mrs. Malfoy. I committed us to that. But _we_ will not bring it up first. Understood?”

Heads nodded in unison.

“I hate that we had to offer _anything_ to Black,” sniped Fox.

“Black is not going to support everything I do,” Tom conceded, “but he is too frightened of me to make a nuisance of himself publicly opposing me. We all read his editorial. His opposition will be silence. He just won’t talk about policies he doesn’t like. I can live with that if he supports me otherwise, in his votes and in his editorials about what he does like.” Tom paused. “On that subject. The _Prophet_ editorial board is actually being _paid_ by Malfoy. You’d think his cronies would have more innate loyalty to him, but I guess not.” Disdain dripped from his words. “Now… in light of what has just come out, I think we should be careful about releasing this. The one thing we don’t want is for Mrs. Malfoy to be accused of conspiring with us.”

“Even though she sort of was,” Patrick Greengrass snarked.

“She agreed to go public and go forward with a divorce suit because she was promised my support—our support,” he amended. “She was under the impression that she would have virtually no support or sympathy from anyone—that most of her own sort would shun her for getting a divorce, and that her family’s political opponents would shrug. Her accusations are true and she just needed the courage to act, but we don’t need the bad press that we’d accrue if this took on the appearance of being a political bargain.” He considered. “The problem with releasing the _Prophet_ payoffs is how we would account for having the data. Obviously, if we said we got it from her, that _does_ look like a conspiracy.”

“But what if the _Prophet_ board starts to attack Mrs. Malfoy?” asked Geoffrey Fox.

“Then she can release the information, and we will stand by the idea of free press instead of political pressure,” he said, smirking asymmetrically and slightly emphasizing the word “idea.” “I just don’t think we should be the ones to release it, unfortunately, since we would have to explain where we got the evidence.”

“But the press is against you too. Having that list of payments won’t change that.”

“I have another plan in mind.” He nodded at Hermione, who smiled and began to speak.

“I’ve spoken with Slughorn, who has agreed to offer ‘amnesty’ of a sort to Barnabas Cuffe—”

Snarls of disgust sounded across the table, but Tom glared at the ones who had dared interrupt her, silencing further eruptions.

“— _if_ he covers Tom’s next speech and press conference fairly and Malfoy’s people punish him for it.” She shared a significant look with Tom. “And on that subject. I do not know how much any of you except Vincent Rosier and the rest of the security team know about what was going on in Eastern Europe and Russia, but it was a great deal more serious than a kidnapper and a pair of isolated murderers.” She stared out at the witches and wizards, meeting their eyes with a very serious gaze. “You need to know this before Tom gives his speech, and we are counting on you to _keep this to yourselves_ until that time.”

There were murmurs around the table. Tom spoke up sharply. “Is that clear?” he snapped. “I will not have my own people spreading rumors before my speech.”

“Yes, Minister,” someone said, a bit surprised.

“Good,” Hermione continued. “Here are the facts, then. It all started in Russia….”

The people at the table listened, horrified and enraged, as Hermione explained what had happened in the East, though conveniently omitting the original name of the Polish leader “Geryk Baginski”—and the fact that she and Tom had both used Unforgivable Curses on the combatants—and Tom’s resurrection following the Killing Curse. She was aware that most of Tom’s faction actually thought that two of the Unforgivables—the Killing Curse and the Imperius Curse—should be allowed in certain circumstances, but she did not want to reveal anything that might be compromising. Everyone, even the hostile _Daily Prophet,_ had accepted the explanation that two of the criminals had been killed in duels after attempting to assassinate the Minister and his wife, but apparently there were still many wizards who were squeamish about the one fatal curse that caused instant, painless death.

After she had finished, one of Tom’s cronies fired the hard question at him: “Minister, pardon me for asking, but why didn’t you just say it was this bad?”

Tom glowered at the wizard. “I thought it would frighten everyone if they knew. And I was concerned about the political consequences of talking about the Ukrainian situation in particular. Of course, the political consequences of saying almost nothing turned out quite bad enough.”

“This should silence that foolish talk about Ministry inquiries, though.”

“It should,” he agreed. “The mission was obviously justified—there is ample precedent for heads of government to personally intervene when it is a matter of the Statute of Secrecy—and that’ll be apparent from my speech.”

“How much did Malfoy know?” Geoffrey Fox asked, his eyebrows narrowed suspiciously.

“Probably everything about the Russian scheme,” Tom said sourly, “but we can’t prove it.” He glanced at Vincent Rosier, who nodded in support.

“And if we can’t prove it,” Rosier finished, “we’ll just look mad for saying it.”

“So yes,” Tom said, shaking his head slightly as if in disbelief. “Abraxas Malfoy was almost certainly aware of an international murder conspiracy, and he bribed the free press to support him, but his abuse of his wife is what will probably discredit him.”

* * *

The news about the Malfoys produced just as much of a shock wave in pureblood Isolationist circles as Tom and Hermione’s network had hoped. It knocked the controversy about Tom to page A3 of the newspaper, as many people in the wizarding community decided to weigh in and the press dissected the story in every conceivable way.

For all their archaic views about the role of witches, many members of the old families drew a line at physically abusing a witch—or at least, a pureblood witch. Orion and Walburga Black jointly penned an editorial stating that any wizard who would treat his (pureblood) wife as Priscilla Malfoy alleged that Abraxas had treated her was a shame and a disgrace upon his heritage. The subtext, the unspoken term, was of course “blood-traitor,” but Hermione and Tom supposed that the pureblood Isolationists knew as well as anyone else that they did not have a monopoly on the meaning of that term anymore. Lucretia Black Prewett, who—with her husband—had not been involved in politics, wrote an editorial for the newspaper condemning Malfoy in harsh terms.

The following day, Florian Rosier, who for some reason was already being considered a member of the British wizarding community even though he had lived most of his life in France, penned a piece in the _Prophet_ that attacked Mrs. Malfoy as a habitual drinker who “probably” brought about her own miscarriages by alcohol consumption. Hermione wordlessly placed that article in front of Tom, her point perfectly clear to him. He was indeed glad that he had not launched that attack himself, after all.

That same day, Vasile Yaxley—a member of the editorial board who was in the pay of Malfoy—issued an “official statement on behalf of the _Prophet_ ” that Orion and Lucretia were Priscilla Malfoy’s close friends, insinuating that they were unreliable sources as a result. That was the fatal mistake that Tom and his coterie had been hoping for.

Although the Lovegoods were by no means inclined to drop their suspicion that Tom might be a vampire or Dark wizard, or that he had masterminded a coup in Russia, they were pleased to have the exclusive scoop on just about any conspiracy implicating anyone. They were also manifestly delighted to have such compromising information about the editorial board of the rival newspaper.

Until the _Quibbler_ broke the story about Malfoy’s purchasing of the _Daily Prophet_ board, Tom, Hermione, and the Malfoys’ political opponents had been pleased to observe the storm from a distance. Finally, though, the legitimate reporters decided to ask the Minister for a statement, cornering him in the atrium of the Ministry.

He suppressed the smirk that wanted to form on his face as he adjusted his coat-style robe that covered his suit. “It is certainly very disturbing that anyone, let alone a wealthy and powerful wizard, bribed members of what should be the free press,” he said as the reporters’ quills took this down. “It’s even more disturbing that these people would then attempt to use their stature as journalists to undermine a witch who appears to have been victimized by truly vicious conduct.”

“You are expressing support for Mrs. Malfoy’s claims, then?” one reporter asked. “You have been silent until now.”

“Because this is not a political matter and we do not have a private relationship with the Malfoys,” Tom replied smoothly. “But since you have asked me, yes, Hermione and I personally support Mrs. Malfoy. What, exactly, would she have had to gain by lying? We can see for ourselves that she is being attacked and doubted by people who have even been friends of their family, and she must have known or suspected that the _Prophet_ board was in Abraxas’s pocket. She came forward anyway.” Tom turned his back, intending to walk to a Disapparition point, but a reporter called out to him again.

“Minister, are we going to find out more about the problems in the East?”

Tom stopped, turned around, and smiled. Sure enough, the press was going to tire of the Malfoy story and return to him. “You are—tomorrow. I will give a full account at ten and a press conference immediately following.”

* * *

_The next day._

The press room of the Ministry was packed. The flags of the Ministry and the Wizarding Nationalists dangled from poles behind the Ministerial podium, and everyone awaited the Minister himself. There were rumors that the Minister’s wife was going to be present as well, as she had been for the disastrous press conference a week ago. Reporters clustered in a tight knot, with Barnabas Cuffe at the head of the group. Politicos and other important figures murmured in the audience, but all noise faded away when Tom and Hermione strode out and took their places behind the podium.

Tom began to speak. “About a week and a half ago, my wife and I led a pair of missions in Russia and Ukraine to provide support to the local authorities in their searches for the criminals who had been terrorizing our wizarding friends in the East. We were accompanied by the best of the best—British and American Aurors, as well as the assistance of our allies in Poland. There have been many questions about why Hermione and I were personally part of these missions, and just what, precisely, happened. Today you are going to learn the answers.” Tom gazed out at the assembled press. “You will not _like_ these answers, and I had hoped to keep the extent of the danger quiet after our forces had successfully neutralized the threat. However,” he continued darkly, “some have attempted to use this for their own political advantage, calling for Ministry inquiries and making baseless speculation, even attacking Hermione in very personal terms. I will not have this.

“The problems began with Igor Karkaroff, who _was_ the leader of the Russian resistance government. He recruited a wizard named Antonin Dolohov, who gained access to the list of witches and wizards in Russia. Karkaroff knew all about this, and there is very strong evidence that he had some names of wizards in other countries. In any case, Dolohov gave _certain_ names on that list to the Muggle KGB, calling them traitors and spies.”

Everyone in the room gasped in horror or snarled in anger. “Why would—” a reporter began to say.

“Dolohov was a violent blood-purity supporter. The names he gave to the Muggles were of those who were not pureblood,” Tom said icily.

There were several uncomfortable mumbles from those in the crowd who sympathized with that viewpoint. For a brief moment, Tom wondered just how much they knew. He continued.

“It resulted, yes, in many witches and wizards being murdered by Muggles, and it destabilized the magical governments in the Eastern bloc. Others in the magical community got suspicious and distrustful, and some wrongly concluded that they knew who the killers were and took the law into their own hands. That accounts for the wizard-on-wizard killings.” He took a deep breath, steeling herself for what had to come next. “In Ukraine, a witch independently deduced what was happening and decided, along with several allies, to throw her lot in with the Soviet Union. She breached Wizarding Secrecy to the Muggle government,” he said grimly, watching the press carefully for their response. “Worse, she kidnapped half-blood children who she believed—rightly—were possibly at risk of being killed, and brought them to a Soviet facility to be trained as ‘super-soldiers’ and magical spies.”

Tom gazed out, pausing to catch his breath as the murmurings briefly began anew and then faded away once he continued his speech. “The situation had become bad enough that it warranted direct intervention by a governmental head, and Wizarding Britain was the nation that stepped up. I would point out that there is ample precedent for direct involvement of Ministers and other heads of government in such matters, and I also had the support of the Polish resistance leader. While we were in St. Petersburg, numerous Russian volunteers joined our team and provided support when Karkaroff and Dolohov treacherously brought in a squad of heavily armed Muggle secret police, with the intent of killing everyone who presumed to try to stop them. _This_ is why the Aurors fought Muggles.

“Karkaroff and Dolohov fled like cowards, and the Polish leader and I chased them into a private room and dueled them, two against two. If I had _not_ been there, they both would have escaped. Dolohov was killed fighting. Karkaroff was left alive, and the Russians selected their new leader afterward. The Aurors would not have presumed to appoint a leader in a foreign state, and it is reckless and disrespectful of their hard work for conspiracy-mongers to suggest this.

“As for the involvement of my wife, she has assumed a leading role in my government. It’s only natural, since she is a witch of unusual intelligence and magical power. _Some people_ have said that this is a bad thing, but what would be _bad_ would be if a witch with superb abilities could not use them fully simply because she was a witch. Hermione deduced some of the key factors of the Eastern situation before I did. She warned me that Karkaroff, to her, did not seem trustworthy, and her instinct was correct. She fought spectacularly in a situation in which she should not have had to fight at all, for her adversary broke the ancient law protecting diplomats. This is not the fault of the Aurors, who, naturally, were not in the negotiation room. The witch who breached Secrecy took advantage of a diplomatic custom.

“As Minister for Magic, I am accustomed to political games and sniping. It’s unpleasant, but part of the job. But Hermione is the president and founder of a research institute that has provided great opportunities to magical innovators, as well as producing breakthroughs that have drastically improved our society. Because of her work and her organization, werewolves can live semi-normal lives. Wizards with no recent magical antecedents, and their close relatives, have been shown to have magical blood just as everyone else in our community. Our Floo network is better, our post does not risk breaching Wizarding Secrecy, our homes can detect impostors, and we have a public wizarding park outside Hogsmeade Village—all because of Hermione and her organization.”

He was exchanging pointed, affectionate glances with her as he showered praise upon her. Although Hermione was aware that some of this was an act for the cameras, she also understood that he meant what he said. It brought a real smile to her face.

“And most recently, Hermione personally defeated a conspiracy to expose magic and put witches and wizards in servitude to Muggles, which in addition to being manifestly despicable, would have potentially incited Muggle governments around the world to enslave or annihilate us!” He caught his breath again, pausing. “And don’t think I don’t know who is responsible for this vile smear campaign against her, especially with the new information that has come out about Abraxas Malfoy’s attempt to cripple our free and independent press. I will not have Hermione attacked by the flacks of someone who both agrees with the views of the Russian criminals that set everything in the East in motion, and who clearly has no respect for his own wife, let alone any other witch.”

The quills of the reporters were taking this down rapidly and furiously. Tom smirked as he finished. “Finally, I have a personal message for Mr. Malfoy. Mr. Malfoy, if you had anything positive to offer the wizarding community, you would have done so. The fact that you instead use lackeys to attack a great witch for her heroism and dedication to bettering the magical community shows that you do not. For my part, I would have looked forward to campaigning against you. I would have relished refuting your attacks on _me._ But your time is up, and you have no one to blame for that but yourself. This is a lesson that all so inclined should take to heart, in fact, whether they are in Kiev or St. Petersburg… or Wiltshire,” he added with a smirk. “If you try to make victims out of magical people, you will not succeed, because we will not stand for it.”

Tom stepped away from the podium and hugged Hermione, who had been standing by proudly. She had been watching the reaction of the assembled press corps, and it was obvious that the response was positive. This was how it should have gone from the start. All he had needed to do was explain what had happened, instead of letting Malfoy’s flacks be the only ones talking.

The reporters had surprisingly few questions after that; Tom’s explanation of the events in the East was comprehensive. Cuffe did ask him about the duel with Karkaroff and Dolohov.

“Minister, how did you and the Polish bloke defeat the Russians? Dark magic?”

Tom hesitated for a moment before smirking broadly. “Of course,” he said. “Wizarding Secrecy was at stake. They couldn’t be allowed to _escape.”_

 _Tom, why?_ Hermione thought, meeting his eyes with her own wide. Why was he doing this?

The reporter took the bait. “Minister, so you are confirming that you are a Dark wizard—”

“When I have to be,” Tom said smoothly. “The Dark Arts are an ancient branch of magic. Any spell can be used to attack, but Dark spells alone can be amplified by powerful intent. What is so wrong about that? I will use all tools at my disposal to protect our people.”

To Hermione’s relief, the members of the press seemed to accept this explanation, not even appearing scandalized. Perhaps there was much more latent tolerance for the Dark Arts among the wizarding community than Hermione had ever imagined—or perhaps Tom’s own people had changed minds on the subject. The admission did not appear to have done any damage.

There were no further questions, so Tom smiled one last time, flashing his signature dazzling smile that was so good at bamboozling people. Then he and Hermione held hands, waved in farewell, and exited the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am going to try to do the Tomione Convention Christmas challenge and have a celebratory party as the next piece, since I've already established in preceding chapters that this is December in the story. There just might be smut, too.


	24. Holiday Entertainment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom and Hermione invite their friends and political allies to a private party. They have plenty to celebrate, so Tom does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fills the Tomione Christmas Challenge prompt “Drunk at a Christmas party.” It is just meant to be fun—and there is a smutty scene first.

To celebrate the season—and the end, however temporary, of hostilities directed at the Minister—Tom and Hermione had decided to hold a party. After much reluctance, they had decided to hold it in their home. Tom in particular had not preferred this; however, he had not dared to requisition part of the Ministry building itself for a private party, and there were some who would look askance at the Minister for Magic holding a Christmas-New Year’s-birthday party in the Serpents’ Chalice rather than his own home. Appearances mattered.

Considering all the growth it had experienced, Hermione had somewhat reluctantly had to employ a pair of house-elves at her organization for cleaning and non-magical maintenance tasks. They were free elves, but they would not accept much pay from her. She decided at once that she did _not_ want to prepare food and ready the house for guests herself, even with magic to assist her, so she summoned them to the house and gave the delighted elves their task.

The party was going to be late, which was fine. That gave Hermione the opportunity to put the children to bed. She did this as the elves worked, bathing them and reading to them before tucking them into their beds. Fortunately for all, their rooms were on the topmost floor of the house, making it easy for her to put up warding spells to keep party noises from disturbing them in their sleep. She and Tom had already determined that the guests would be restricted to the ground and first floors, below the two floors where the members of the family slept. She expected that there would be no need, in fact, for anyone to go to the ground floor unless they had to use the loo. The first floor had the parlor, large family sitting room, and the lower level of the library, as well as open hall space. There would be plenty of space for people to mingle, and the valuable or personal items in these rooms could be magically protected from spills, falls, or errant hexes.

At last the children were tucked into bed. It was a mercy that they were young enough that they could have early bedtimes without too much objection. Hermione got up from the crib that stood in the master bedroom, stretched, and turned around to find Tom gazing at her from the doorway.

“I should bathe,” he said abruptly. He moved forward into the room.

“All right,” she remarked idly.

Tom passed through the bedroom and into the master bath. Before long, Hermione heard water running, but not in the shower—in the green marble tub. Interesting. This was the second time recently that he had wanted to use it.

“Hermione,” he called through the doorway.

Her eyes flicked up, acknowledging him questioningly.

“Join me in the bath.”

She raised an eyebrow at that. He was unsure for a moment about whether it was because he was going to take a bath rather than a shower, or because he had commanded rather than asked her. Some quick Legilimency revealed that it was both.

 _“Will_ you join me in the bath?” he tried again.

She cast a smile at him as she headed into the bathroom behind him.

Once they were undressed and the tub was full of hot, fragrant—albeit not _floral_ —water, they got in.

Hermione’s hair was a bit more manageable than it used to be, but she still did not like tending to it. She gladly allowed Tom to shampoo it, relishing the feel of his fingers rubbing against her scalp—and, she noted, her neck and shoulders. She smiled. That was very pleasant indeed.

They shifted in the pool-like tub, Hermione moving close behind him to scrub his back, rub his shoulders, and give him a shampoo in turn. His hair was still exasperatingly perfect, easy to manage and with nary a hint of grey in it. Well, they _were_ in their early thirties. It often seemed otherwise, they had accomplished so much.

Hermione filled a silver pitcher with hot water and poured it over his head, rinsing out the shampoo. It would leave behind a pleasant clean scent.

“I picked up the extra wine,” she said, her lips close to the back of his neck. “I hope they don’t actually ‘need’ it all, though. That might be unpleasant for _us.”_

“What about you? Are you going to enjoy yourself tonight?”

She chuckled lightly. “I have every intention of _enjoying myself,_ but if you mean ‘am I going to drink,’ then yes, this time. I prepared enough bottles for Cynthia in advance… and there is always Sobering Potion.”

“There has been Sobering Potion all along.”

“I just didn’t want to get in the habit of always using it so that I could have my little vice and also safely nurse her. You know that I used to sip quite a lot before the children were born. I wanted to prove to myself—”

“Yes, yes,” he said impatiently. He wrapped his arm around her naked waist, pulling her close, and nuzzled her neck. “I just want you to have a good time at the party, after all the rubbish we’ve had to deal with lately.”

She let him touch her, allowing one of his hands to slip down her hips under the surface of the water and toward her juncture. It was quite pleasant, and the perfumed bubble bath in the water was wafting into the air, helped along by the warmth of the room. A small fireplace crackled near the bath. Despite the fact that this room was often quite steamy and humid after someone ran water into the bath, so much that droplets condensed on the dark grey tile lining the floor and walls, magic kept the fire going and the place toasty. At the moment, it was just this side of oppressively warm and fragrant—but it _was_ on the right side of comfort. Very much so, in fact.

Hermione turned to him, sliding easily in the water, skin smooth as silk. She faced him, smiling as seductively as she knew how. She let her hand trail down his side.

He growled under his breath before lunging in the tub, sloshing water, and pulling her to him in a heated kiss.

Hermione tried to speak. “We should”—he moved down her jaw to her neck—“hold off until after the party”—his hand slipped between her legs—“because we just got clean—”

He chuckled. “Then let’s remain in here for it.”

Reluctantly, hating the fact that she was doing it, she pushed him away. “We have tried this before, Tom. Remember? It’s really not comfortable.”

His face fell slightly, but his gaze darted to the little fireplace.

“On the tile floor, then,” he said abruptly. He shifted his hands to her waistline and began to lift her out of the bath. “And _now.”_

She did not struggle or attempt to dissuade him from this. The room was like a spa, and the floor would be perfectly comfortable in terms of temperature. As he stepped out, the bath foam and bubbles falling below his waistline, Hermione realized with wide eyes why he was so eager.

He set her down gently on the tile, warm and slick from condensation. Ordinarily this would be less than comfortable, but the thin film of water on the unyielding tile and her own warm flesh, the slickness of the surface, somehow made it so sensual that it didn’t matter that it was a tile floor.

Tom did not waste any time. He knelt between her legs and placed his hands on her hips, gazing at her with a truly wicked look on his face. “I like it when you comply so _freely_ when I want this,” he murmured in a voice almost low enough to be a growl.

She raised an eyebrow at that even as he pressed his fingertips lightly into her hips and sides. “I thought you liked it when I fought you.”

He smirked back. “Oh, I like that too.” He leaned over suddenly, allowing his hands to slide up her sides. They moved across her chest, finally settling on her breasts.

Sensing his intent, she made to rise up to meet him halfway, but he quickly shifted his hands to her shoulders and pushed her down, gently but firmly, pinning her to the floor. He leaned in fully, his head next to hers, and whispered in her ear, “But right now, I wouldn’t want to have to _take_ you. I don’t want pretense right now. You _know_ you’re mine, don’t you?” He punctuated his statement with a light nip of her earlobe. She drew in her breath involuntarily and twisted beneath him, eliciting a chuckle right next to her ear. He followed by gently licking the shell of her ear, deliberately teasing her.

“I know”—she gasped—“that… _you’re mine.”_

He pulled away, regarding her with a surprised look and a raised eyebrow. “Is that so?” he murmured. His hands trailed down her sides once more.

“Isn’t it?” she challenged.

He stared at her for a brief moment before a grin blossomed once again on his face. “Yes, it is.” One hand trailed idly toward the heated spot between her legs, stopping just short of its destination. A slight moan of dissatisfaction escaped her lips, and he smirked in triumph.

He positioned himself just at her center, teasing her. She arched her back, attempting to slide onto him, but he moved away just enough to prevent it. “You know what you have to say—”

“I’m yours too, then!”

He flashed her a beautiful white smile and pushed forward, filling her, providing sweet relief. Her eyes rolled back in bliss and her mind went fuzzy as they moved together, the strangely erotic sensation of heat and water and hard, slick tile against her flushed skin making this even more intense. He quickly lost the capacity for speech.

She reached for his back, fingers digging into his shoulders, as she gasped out her pleasure. The sounds seemed to excite him even more, and he responded by moving his hands up her sides, across her chest—briefly teasing her hard nipples—and then up the sides of her neck and into her hair. He fisted handfuls of it, but it didn’t hurt. The feeling of his fingertips against her scalp was bliss.

A breathy gasp escaped her as she found her climax, sliding a bit on the floor as her release flooded her body. He followed soon after, a strangled cry tumbling from his lips. He did not collapse on top of her, as he usually did when they were in bed, but managed to remain balanced on his palms as he gazed down at her, panting and utterly satisfied.

Eventually they decided to take one last dip in the bath before getting themselves ready for the party.

* * *

The party had begun. Hermione was garbed in a dark green satin gown, and Tom in tuxedo-style dress robes with matching dark green lining. They welcomed the guests as they trickled through the front door and into the house, admiring the tasteful decorations of their hosts. The food and drink lay on narrow tables in the hallway, covered but still delicious-smelling and enticing. The guest list was limited to their closest associates and a couple of extras: for Tom, the Rosiers and most of the rest of the usual inner circle; for Hermione, Catriona Dagworth and Lila Brynolf, and four others from her organization. They had also invited Slughorn and—to Tom’s sour resignation—Dumbledore, but they did not expect either to attend. School was not in session, but some students were there. The clock ticked ever closer to the party hour, and neither professor turned up.

Everyone who was going to arrive had arrived, so Tom and Hermione waved their wands. The silver lids and coverings rose, revealing the food, and then disappeared beneath the tables onto the benches that were concealed there. There was a punch bowl, and the elves were pouring drinks for everyone who wanted one. Very soon, the guests were munching away at the party food and sipping their drinks, gradually loosening up as more drink flowed into their systems.

Hermione noticed that her personal guests seemed to be sticking to a tight knot, not mingling much with Tom’s people, and that the latter were not making any move to change that. It bothered her a bit, before she remembered that they were all scholarly types and not hard-nosed political insiders. With a tender touch to Tom’s arm, she moved away from him and went toward her people.

Lila, the werewolf, did not look her best, but the full moon was about a week away. She managed a smile—more of a grimace—for Hermione.

“How is work?” Hermione asked. The werewolf was a historian of Ancient Runes and wrote scholarly papers and books on the subject. It was not very well-paying, but even with the Wolfsbane Potion, there were few jobs for which people would readily hire lycanthropes, and virtually none that required regular dealings with large numbers of people. This werewolf was lucky that she liked something that did not require that.

“I have planned a visit to Finland to examine a prehistoric site of magical power,” she said, a real smile blooming on her face. “Cat would like to go with me, but if you cannot spare her….”

“As soon as you know the particulars of the trip, she needs to let me know when and how long it will be,” Hermione advised. “I might be able to spare her.”

Catriona overheard bits of the conversation and moved away from the cabinet she was pretending to study. “What was that? I didn’t catch you.”

Hermione repeated herself for her employee. As she finished, a loud knock sounded on the front door. Hermione was closer than Tom, so she went over to it. The panel for identifying visitors said, to their great surprise, that the latecomers were Albus Dumbledore and Horace Slughorn. She opened the door, eyes wide.

“Good evening!” Slughorn’s voice boomed through the hall. Several heads turned. “So sorry that we’re late, but the school—you know how it is.”

“Welcome,” Hermione said, helping the professors inside. “We’re just happy you could make it.” She noticed that Slughorn was carrying a valise. “Would you like me to take that?”

Slughorn smiled as Tom approached. “Well, you certainly may, but Albus and I have gifts for the two of you first.”

“Oh, gifts!” exclaimed one of Tom’s cronies, already a bit tipsy. “Yes—let’s see them!”

Pleased at the attention, Slughorn opened the valise and drew out two wrapped gifts from its magically expanded depths. He presented the first to Hermione with a visage of solemnity. “This is from Albus.”

Hermione carefully unwrapped the box. Her eyes popped when she saw what it was. “Oh!” she exclaimed in delight. She beamed at Dumbledore, who was standing by quietly, presumably letting Slughorn enjoy being the center of attention.

“What is it?” someone asked.

Hermione opened the cardboard box and slid the item—or, rather, items—out. There were two boxes, one resembling a small wooden jewelry box and the other resembling a miniature, doll-furniture-sized cabinet. Hermione set the tiny cabinet on the floor and tapped her wand, silently casting a spell. The cabinet instantly grew to full size, as large as a wardrobe. Hermione enlarged the other box to the size of a briefcase.

“It’s something like a Vanishing Cabinet,” Hermione explained to the assembled guests, “except one-way.” She set the box on the floor and opened its lid, then stepped inside.

Her feet, legs, torso, and head seemed to sink into the floor, disappearing at once. Immediately after she vanished, the box itself disappeared. Gasps and expressions of surprise came from the guests, and Tom gave the Headmaster a very hard look, but Albus Dumbledore’s blue eyes twinkled in amusement.

In a second, the door to the vanishing cabinet opened and Hermione stepped out, holding the box in her hands. She smirked at the open-mouthed expressions on her guests. “I can’t use the cabinet to travel out of the house, but I can carry this box with me, in a shrunken form, and use it as a getaway. It’s very useful if one ever needs to escape and there are no Floo outlets—and Apparition wards are up!”

“What about security?” Tom asked, still giving Dumbledore a hard, distrustful look. “Someone else could use it to break into the house, couldn’t they?”

Dumbledore spoke up. “This one can actually be set with a passphrase. There are instructions for the spell in the packaging. And it’s always possible to magically lock the cabinet.”

Slughorn moved forward, intervening before this turned into a dispute. “I’m afraid that my gift is less novel and clever, but here it is nonetheless! Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and to you, Tom, happy birthday.” He handed his gift to Tom.

Tom set it down on the nearest table and opened it. A grin spread across his face at the sight of the gift: four bottles of fine, well-aged brandy. The guests craned their necks to see, and as they caught sight, most of them burst into hoots of applause and expressions of “Good old Sluggy!” Tom winked at Hermione—and a rapidly growing sense of apprehension filled her as he lifted one bottle out of the gift box. He opened the bottle, summoned a glass from the nearest table, and filled it with a smug flourish.

“To a successful next year!” He raised the glass high and brought it back to his lips at once. His eyes fluttered shut at the taste. He opened them again and flashed a smile at Slughorn. “Excellent choice. We’ll definitely enjoy this!”

The Riddles and their guests moved into the sitting room, Tom still holding the bottle and glass. He immediately became engulfed by a circle of his own cronies, whom Slughorn joined. Hermione found it very questionable; in an environment with such strong political factional loyalty, this would be seen as the Deputy Headmaster choosing a side. However, this _was_ Slughorn, and he had always skirted the ethics line when it came to networking….

With a mild smile, Dumbledore assimilated himself into the smaller circle of Hermione’s friends. Lila Brynolf began a conversation with the Headmaster, her former Head of House, about the planned trip to Finland to study the ancient runic magic. It quickly became an involved discussion, and Hermione could not resist the interesting subject matter herself.  She also rather enjoyed the wine that she had purchased for the party, but she was careful not to overdo that.

Some time later, a loud guffaw cracked across the room from Tom’s group. The researchers’ talk subsided, and they turned to look at the other circle. Tom was smirking broadly, holding his glass in one hand and the brandy bottle in his other. Hermione noticed at once that it was rather less than full. Her eyes widened.

“That’s great, Minister,” one of his cronies said sycophantically, oblivious to the fact that the attention of everyone in the room was on them.

“It mustn’t leave these walls, of course,” Tom said. His voice did have some of its usual menace, but right now there was also a certain odd jocularity. Hermione wondered what in Merlin’s name he had just said to make one of his people laugh like that.

“So then,” slurred the wizard, “I don’t suppose it’ll be on the Minister’s agenda for the next year?”

Tom sipped his drink. “Oh, I don’t know,” he drawled. “There might be broad support for it.” The group again burst into a storm of chuckles, even Slughorn, though he looked a bit uncomfortable.

Hermione had no idea what they were joking about, but this sounded ominous. She scurried past her guests, trying to stand next to him so that she could keep him from having any more drink.

“So,” another crony began, a gleam in his eye as he addressed Tom, “when are you going to make the Defense NEWT require compert—competrice—”

 _“Competence,”_ put in a very tipsy Vincent Rosier.

“Yes, that. In casting the Unforgivables?” finished the first wizard. “You know Lovegood thinks you’re going to do that,” he added.

Hermione was pretty sure that she saw a bead of sweat form on Slughorn’s head.

Tom merely smirked again. “Oh, why ever should I stop with that?” he said sarcastically. “There’s a _world_ of evil, wicked magic. According to some, I’m the second coming of Grindelwald, after _all,_ so nobody should get a Magical Creatures NEWT until they can successfully set a dragon on a city of Muggles.” He raised his glass as the group of people laughed at the supposedly hilarious sarcasm of it.

Hermione decided that enough was enough. This sort of “joke” might be harmless enough among Tom’s own crowd, but Albus Dumbledore was also present—and Slughorn—and she knew that the former, at least, did not particularly trust Tom on the subject of Dark magic. She shoved Rosier out of the way. Now no one was between her and Tom.

Tom glanced at her, then moved the hand holding his glass as she reached for it. The drink splashed up the sides of the glass, but none spilled.

“The bottle,” she murmured, gently tugging it out of his other hand. He did not object to that, at least. She banished it to the box in the hallway with the others, but the damage was done, and she did not have any more Sobering Potion, having used it for herself.

“On a more serious note,” Tom continued, waving the glass around, “I don’t support censoring information, even dark information, and Hogwarts—”

That was it. Hermione was not sure if that was going where she feared it was, but it certainly could not go anywhere good. Tom’s boastful, combative, grandiose side took over when his inhibitions were down, and they were absolutely down right now.

“Information _isn’t_ censored,” she interjected. “The _Ministry_ doesn’t ban books. And we fully support freedom of the press. In fact,” she added hurriedly, almost babbling as she observed Tom’s annoyed glance, “part of the next year’s agenda for the Minister will be to make some much-needed reforms to our justice system.”

“Oh, that _is_ interesting,” Dumbledore said. He seemed to understand perfectly well what Hermione was doing—and she kept her eyes from making contact with his own, so he would not obtain any private details of anything—but he was also truly interested in the idea of justice reform.

“Yes,” she said emphatically. “Isn’t that so, Tom?”

Fortunately, in his drunken state, Tom was easily distracted. He took up the discussion. _“Yes,”_ he said. He tipped his glass, finishing the last of the brandy, then handed it to Rosier as if the latter were his servant. “It is an utter _disgrace_ that witches and wizards have fewer rights than Muggles in the legal system. A disgrace. I am proud to say I _never_ sent anyone to Azkaban unless they were _convicted_ , but even then… we should never treat our own worse than the Muggles treat theirs. It’s _wrong.”_

Well, that could have gone better, Hermione thought with a mild grimace. Dumbledore _was_ in favor of all sorts of reforms to the criminal justice system, but this particular argument might not be the most compelling to him. _At least he’s not making ill-considered jokes about setting dragons on Muggles or going on about open discussion of the Dark Arts,_ she thought.

Tom turned to Rosier. “I’m hungry,” he said in an undertone. Rosier, still holding Tom’s empty glass, stiffened.

Hermione held her breath for the inevitable explosion, but to her surprise, Rosier relaxed at once and dutifully summoned an elf to have some food brought to the clearly inebriated Minister. Hermione took the glass from him and surreptitiously cast a spell to fill it with water. Tom would have to sober up the natural way, but it was definitely time for that to happen before he said something irrevocably damaging.

The little circle of researchers returned to their own conversation, Dumbledore among them. Hermione felt a pang as she watched across the room, wishing she could be part of that discussion, but for the moment it appeared that she had to dance attendance on Tom for his own good.

Before long, people began to yawn from the food, drink, and lateness. Slughorn drew out his own pocket watch and glanced at it. “Oh, look at the time,” he rumbled. He peered across the room, trying to catch Albus’s eye. “We should get back to the school. Hopefully Minerva hasn’t let them burn it down around her ears,” he chuckled.

Hermione managed a chuckle of her own at the idea of Minerva McGonagall—even a new, young one—allowing _anything._

As the professors prepared to depart, the rest of the guests seemed to take stock of the time and their own belongings. Hermione turned to Dumbledore and Slughorn as the “borrowed” elves helped them with their winter robes.

“Don’t let him enjoy _all_ of that,” Slughorn remarked with a wink to the box of bottles in the hall.

Hermione smiled grimly. “I have no intention of it.” She gave Tom a pointed look. “He doesn’t _need_ all of it.”

Tom was just sober enough now that he appeared to be considering some of his comments in a rather different light, and the memories had put a furrow in his brow. Good.

The stout professor reached to wrap his Slytherin scarf around his neck as he and Dumbledore stepped outside into the cold. “Brrr!” he exclaimed. “I almost don’t want to leave! We must, though. Take care! Happy holidays!” he called.

* * *

After everyone had left, including the elves, and all the decorations had been put away, Tom was fully sober again. He turned to Hermione with a grateful look in his eyes.

“Were you going to say what I think you were?” she asked, hands on her hips.

“Honestly, I was just going to rant about the school’s suppression of Dark topics in a general sense,” he said. “I _might_ have mentioned specifics, of course—the mind leaps about wildly and the mouth often follows suit under those circumstances—”

“And you’d _better_ hope that Slughorn’s mind didn’t ‘leap about.’”

“Or what?” he scoffed. “I know of the existence of something, so therefore I must have done it?”

She raised an eyebrow pointedly at him, her silence speaking for itself.

“My point is, nobody would _assume_ that. Anyway, Dumbledore has no authority anymore over the scope of my magical knowledge… _but…_ no need to mention it in public, you’re right. And I suppose that merely complaining about Dark Arts censorship in a general way would have been quite bad enough in the old codger’s presence.” He scowled.

“The ‘old codger’ will be on your side if you do go ahead with justice reform when the Wizengamot is in session again,” she said severely. “Unless you alienate him.”

“I know that.”

“I have some specific ideas that I’d like to see happen,” she continued.

He took her hand. “I’m sure you do. We should confer on this, because it won’t be good to ask the Wizengamot for something that we’ll never have enough votes to approve… but later.”

She smiled a genuine smile, enclosing his fingers with her own. “Indeed.”


	25. Curious Allies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione wants to change some of the more appalling things about the wizarding justice system. She finds support in some very unexpected places.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry for the delay with this piece. I’ve been extraordinarily busy since the new year. I’m also about to start a new job that is likely to be extremely stressful… to say the least. However, I’m not finished with this AU.
> 
> This piece is very wonkish, but I appreciate intricate, thoughtful policy wonkery, and I figure readers of this particular story can at least tolerate it. ;) The things mentioned here have always bothered me in the canon books.

Hermione frowned as she set down the last document that she had just finished reading, a copy of the regulations concerning the wizarding legal system. It was not a pretty picture. In fact, it was barbaric. As she had known for a while, wizards in Britain—and, for that matter, the United States—had no right of due process of law, at least in the sense that she understood it from her awareness of the Muggle world. In wizarding Britain, they could be carted off to Azkaban without trial if a top Ministry official deemed it necessary for “security.” When the accused did get a trial, it did not include the right to legal defense. Hermione knew that “trials” in wizarding Britain generally consisted of the accused being held—often chained—at the center of the courtroom, barely allowed to speak, screamed at and interrupted constantly by Ministry bureaucrats, without the benefit of an attorney or even any rules of order for the proceeding itself. Once at Azkaban, prisoners were held in the custody of monsters, with limited oversight over said monsters. The conditions of Azkaban absolutely constituted torture, in Hermione’s opinion. In wizarding America, certain officials even had the right of immediate summary execution behind closed doors, and the accused—the _victim—_ had no right of appeal.

Hermione knew that she was unable to change the policies of a foreign country, at least without having the International Confederation of Wizards take up the matter. To her chagrin, she was not a member yet, though Tom was. But before any procedure to change the legal system _globally_ could begin, Britain’s own wizarding justice system had to have some changes made. They needed a moral platform to stand on before they could criticize others—and it was the right thing to do, either way.

Hermione occasionally wondered at the fact that she was going to be working with Tom Riddle to expand human rights in the wizarding world, but so it was. His extreme wizarding pride had made the idea of wizards having fewer rights than Muggles unconscionable to him.

_I still can’t decide what kind of nationalism his views really are,_ she thought idly. _He doesn’t hesitate to make disparaging comments about the Muggle world or to incite fear of Muggles. Even one of his best policies—granting Squib status to all the Muggle-born families—was about including those non-magicals with magical ancestry, rather than being inclusive of the non-magical population generally. But he does care about our community, and he has done good things for us without actually harming Muggles… and some Muggles do pose a threat to us. Still… I know he already disliked them, and their present geopolitical situation is a rationalization for what he would have thought anyway._

She supposed that it did not matter. Tom had elements of both destructive and constructive kinds of nationalistic sentiment, if those of magical heritage were seen as a “nation,” and that was just how it was. He was complicated… but Hermione realized that she would not have been happy with a simple person. Tom challenged her—sometimes exasperatingly so, and they did not always agree, but they _always_ kept each other thinking, and that was incalculably precious.

She returned to her examination of the laws. Most of them, unfortunately, had been enacted by the Wizengamot, and therefore would require a Wizengamot act to alter or repeal. That was a longer-term project. But there _were_ a few things that could be changed with the stroke of the Ministerial quill….

Hermione scribbled some notes and got up to find Tom in his home office.

* * *

Tom shared her contemplative frown as he read her propositions. Finally he set down the documents on his desk, covering his dark blue diary. He gazed at her, distracting her attention from that book.

“As you pointed out, removing the dementors from Azkaban requires a Wizengamot vote. Now… I have no personal objection to it,” he began. “The idea of incarcerating wizards and witches around creatures that drain their magic and turn them gradually insane is abhorrent to me. It’s a crime against magic. I really think that the prison could be secured by strong wards, Aurors, wand confiscation, and the Imperius Curse for the worst cases. But for some incomprehensible reason, people think that’s ‘evil.’”

Hermione smiled despite his final sentence. “Then do you think that you can get your faction to vote as a bloc with you? I’m absolutely certain that Albus Dumbledore is against the dementors, and he could very likely get the Reformists to support him—”

“I’m pretty sure that Weasley would want to keep them, though,” Tom said, reflexively grimacing at the mention of Dumbledore. “I expect, yes, that I can get my own faction behind me. But the other two will be divided. I’ll have to do some… intelligence gathering.” He hesitated. “And have a plan for what to do with them if they’re not at the prison.”

“What do you mean, what to do with them?” Hermione pointed at the next item on the list. “If there’s one thing I want changed _more_ than the dementors’ presence at the prison—”

Tom smiled—almost smirked. “Yes, and I’ll get to that. But I don’t want rogue dementors preying on the population either.”

“They are Dark creatures that do literally nothing except destroy people,” Hermione said severely. “I don’t think we should have to ‘do anything with them’ except wipe them out.”

Tom considered. “That’s quite an undertaking… but I admire your goal, and I’ll direct the Department of Mysteries to get to work on the _how._ With your organization,” he added as her eyebrows rose. “But in the meantime….” He smiled that pointed smile again. _“This_ I can change with an order, and I will be delighted to do so. I probably should have done it when I first became Minister, though fortunately nobody has paid the price for that delay.”

Hermione’s eyebrows rose even higher. _“Really?_ I—I confess I’m a little surprised—”

Tom set the papers down, got up from his chair, and put his hands around her waist. “Why do you think I would be in favor of the Dementor’s Kiss? I’ve never ordered that for anyone as Law Enforcement Head or as Minister.”

Her gaze fluttered involuntarily toward the blue diary on his desk. “I know you haven’t… and I shouldn’t think this way, but in my old timeline….” She trailed off. “Never mind. That’s not really it. It’s _that.”_ She pointed at the diary, unwilling to meet his eyes.

He tilted her chin so that they had to look at each other. “’That’ is precisely _why_ I am pleased to do away with this bit of incomparable barbarism. I of _all_ people understand the importance of the soul. I know better than most that it’s not only the core of personality, memories, and magic, as the Hogwarts Defense curriculum declares.” He stroked the surface of the diary with his spread fingertips. “I understand what its _other_ central attribute is, because I dared to read those ‘evil’ Dark Arts books that talk about its immortality….” He collected himself, taking a breath. “The point is, I know the value of the soul _especially_ well. I will abolish this practice as soon as I can talk to Caspar Crouch about it.”

Hermione was taken aback. “Crouch?” she repeated. This got stranger and stranger. She was astonished that Tom wanted to reach out to his former political adversary.

“I can’t afford to have him against me on a policy that affects his department. The press isn’t attacking us anymore, but my position is still too precarious for that.”

This was unexpected. “Do you think you can?” she asked.

“I expect so. I don’t think he cares about it. He hasn’t asked me to approve it for anyone since I became Minister. He just wouldn’t like me to do something that he considered an encroachment upon his job—even though I have clear legal authority here. His ego should be satisfied by the fact that I consulted with him,” Tom scoffed disdainfully. “I’ll work on my arguments to him, of course.”

Hermione reflected on what she had just heard. This time around, Tom did care about wizarding people, if in an impersonal way, based more on the common good of the wizarding world—or his idea of it. As odd as it was to consider, his reasoning against the Dementor’s Kiss made a certain twisted sense, too. He had not been drawn to Horcruxes because the soul was the seat of personality and memory, after all. In this mirror-world, where Tom did have a few people he loved and a sense of real—if narcissistic—responsibility to the wizarding world, his fixation with that particular form of Dark magic had apparently permuted rather differently.

_Well… sometimes people can arrive at the same position through different personal reasons,_ she thought. If it served a good end, then so be it.

She pointed at another item on the list of notes as he sat back down in his chair. “My analysis of the current law is that, with another order, you could require that all accused have the right to a wizarding attorney at trial.”

Tom folded his hands and studied his fingers. “I could. Not all can afford to pay, though.”

“In the Muggle world—”

Tom scowled.

Hermione scowled back. “Tom, you want to improve our legal system because you don’t want Muggles to have more rights in their courts than we do in ours. That means, by definition, that we’ll be making ours more similar to theirs.”

The scowl lasted another moment, but then it lifted in resignation to her logic.

“In the Muggle world,” she continued, “there is a pool of public defenders appointed to cases by the justice system. I’m not sure that is the best answer for us, given that it would probably have to be the Department of Magical Law Enforcement in our case.”

He gave her a sideways look. “You don’t trust my Ministry?”

Hermione raised her eyebrows high. “It’s not about you, Tom. Would _you_ trust an attorney who technically answered to Caspar Crouch to argue in court against him?”

It was something of an unfair question. Caspar Crouch was territorial about his office, but he really did not seem as authoritarian as his son would be—have been?—in the other timeline. Still, she knew that the wizarding world did not have enough appreciation of ethics or human rights for her to trust the independence of a defense attorney who answered to the prosecutor—and head of the department. And more to the point, she knew that Tom did not trust Caspar Crouch on any account.

For whichever reason, that question did give Tom pause. “Fair point,” he conceded. “It does look bad for a defense attorney to serve under the Law Enforcement Head… and obviously the Wizengamot itself can’t do it, since they hear the trials.”

“Having the Wizengamot as a legislature _and_ a court of law is a problem itself,” Hermione muttered.

“One thing at a time, dear. You’re right; we don’t have to do things exactly the way _they_ do.” He considered. “There aren’t that many wizarding attorneys in the first place.”

Hermione nodded. The procedure for becoming a wizarding attorney was to pass a test that the Ministry of Magic administered. It was a certification, and one had to study the law entirely on one’s own; wizards did not have law school. To her disapproval, there was no Hogwarts course in “Wizarding Civics” or “Wizarding Law” either. She made a mental note to present that idea to Dumbledore at some point; she doubted that Slughorn would care much about it. _And perhaps McGonagall,_ she added in thought. _She might be interested in the idea too._

“And they won’t be needed _all_ the time, after all,” Tom continued. “So the Ministry could pay them on a case-by-case basis. Just have a list of them to call upon as needed.”

Hermione nodded. “That would work. _Not_ from the money allocated for Magical Law Enforcement, though… and they would not officially be part of any Ministry department. Just a list of names, and someone not in that Department randomly chooses one for a trial when requested.”

Tom gave her a wry smile. “That’s a good idea, and I absolutely have to tell Crouch about the other issue if I do it. Wait, Hermione,” he said at once as she began to turn aside. He got up and placed a hand on her arm, looking at her with intense eyes. “I’m not dismissing you.”

He gave her a squeeze, which she returned with a warm smile.

* * *

Hermione stared at the paper, frowning. “Tom,” she said, “why do you want to do this? Replace the Dementor’s Kiss with the Killing Curse? This really isn’t what I had in mind.”

Tom looked up from his chair. The children were already in bed, and the adults were in the family sitting room. He raised a brow at her and pointedly fingered the ring, the Hallow, on his finger. “You surely agree that the Killing Curse is better.”

She set the proposal down on a side table. “Of course it’s _better._ Anything would be better! But why do you have to have capital punishment at all?”

“It’s an _option,_ Hermione. An option for the most dangerous cases. It’s not a mandate.”

“I do not like the idea of the Minister— _yes,_ Tom, even you, and even _me,_ if I were Minister—arbitrarily deciding which dangerous prisoners are executed and which are imprisoned!”

“Then you want it mandated?” he challenged.

“No! I don’t know why you have to have this in the law at all. Is it”—her lips pursed at the thought—“for _politics?”_

“Might be,” he said. “People are resistant to forward-moving change. I don’t have to _use_ this, Hermione… it’s just an option in the law.”

She stared at him in disappointment. “This shouldn’t be the sort of thing you use as a political bargaining chip.”

“A political _bargaining_ chip?” he repeated. “If that’s it, do recall what we _get_ from that bargain. I’ll make it.”

She hesitated, but another objection occurred to her. “What if no one is able to cast the Killing Curse?”

Tom muttered something under his breath, but Hermione caught it anyway.

“I know that _you_ could, Mr. Yes-Reporter-I-Am-a-Dark-Wizard, but you won’t be the one with that duty. Not everyone can do it.”

Tom considered that. “Well, there’s always poison. Several potions cause painless death. That could be an alternative.” He made a note on the document, then stared hard at her as something occurred to him. “Is this just because you cast the Killing Curse on that cow in Kiev and still regret it? Is that what it’s really about?”

Hermione blinked. A rush of defensive anger surged in her. “I’ll _try_ to forget you said that, Tom. Good night.”

As she turned to walk out the door, he jumped from his seat and called out. “Wait—Hermione.”

She paused in the doorway, regarding him frostily.

“I… I’m sorry,” he finally got out. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

Her face softened, and surprise flickered in her brown eyes. He approached her, and when he reached her, placed his hands gently on her waist.

“And yes… it’s to make the change more politically palatable in the short term. Long term, there should be more education about the subject matter in general. I’m working on that idea.”

Hermione was so moved that he had actually apologized for insensitivity, without prompting, that she did not make much note of this last remark.

* * *

Caspar Crouch had been suspicious when the Minister summoned him to his office. Riddle had probably found—or concocted—a reason to fire him, he supposed. He was even more suspicious when he saw that the Minister’s wife was beside the desk. Crouch did not agree with the scathing but childish editorial that Druella Black had written about Mrs. Riddle, but he _was_ rather annoyed that the Minister’s closest advisor was someone who was not answerable to any of the Ministry or Wizengamot apparatus. It would be so simple—if highly unorthodox—for Riddle to appoint her to a position, but he clearly preferred her substantial influence to be unofficial. After all, who in either institution would dare publicly object to a Minister listening to his spouse?

Crouch had attempted to dispel the appearance of dislike and suspicion from his face as Riddle began to speak to him. Then, as the conversation reached its central point, the suspicion disappeared organically.

Hermione had been observing Crouch throughout the interaction. He did not like Tom, he did not like her, and he attempted—badly—to hide the latter. She had some time ago given up the idea that she would be distinct from Tom in the opinions of his political adversaries—or, when it came to it, most of his allies, and even the general wizarding public. It frustrated her a little bit still, because she had worked so hard to have her own career, but she realized that it was inevitable that they would be linked. And, after all, she _had_ helped him… she _had_ exchanged ideas with him, assisted him with the details of many of his proposals, and fought the same fight in the Soviet bloc so recently….

“So,” Tom said, pushing a sheet of paper at Crouch, “here is what I would like to do. Our justice system is worse than the Muggle courts during the burning times, and I hope you’ll agree that this needs to change.”

Crouch read over the paper with a contemplative frown. He set it down on the desk, passing it back to Tom, and considered his reply before speaking.

“I think,” he began, “that this is a very reasonable proposal, and I appreciate the fact that you let me know about it in advance.”

“And the other change I’m going to make? The right to legal defense?”

Crouch considered how to answer. “It will make my department’s job in the courtroom less easy, and make no mistake about that,” he said, “but it should significantly reduce the amount of press commentary about ‘stacked courts’ and unfair trials.”

_Commentary that is warranted and well-deserved,_ Hermione thought.

“It should,” Tom agreed warmly. Hermione knew the warmth in his voice right now was an affectation, but it was convincing to most others. “It makes the Ministry look better—giving these people a fair chance—while at the same time, ensuring that our system affords the same rights as the Muggles’.”

Crouch thought about that. “Minister, you and I don’t always agree, to say the least, but we do agree about that.”

Tom smirked broadly.

* * *

Tom insisted that Hermione be with him for the meeting with Albus Dumbledore. She did not object to being present; she was sure, in fact, that she would be more effective with Dumbledore than Tom could be, with his dislike of the man. But a part of her found it somewhat petty that Tom _did_ still have such a problem with Dumbledore that he apparently did not think he could talk with the man, Minister for Magic to Headmaster of Hogwarts, in a private meeting. She asked Tom about that as they prepared for Dumbledore’s arrival in the Ministry.

He adjusted his necktie. “Dumbledore never did trust me,” he said. He lowered his voice. “That business in fifth year… he always suspected I had a hand in it. And he’s the only person I know of who might be as good a Legilimens as I am.”

Hermione gave him a sideways look. She supposed it made sense; Dumbledore _had_ thought that Tom was responsible for the Chamber of Secrets incident almost as soon as it had happened. But he had never voiced that suspicion to anyone, even after Tom became Minister, even during the times when the press would have seized on such shocking information like a shark in a pool of chum—and even now, after Tom had admitted in a public press conference to being a Dark wizard “when he had to be.” Perhaps Dumbledore had decided that, even if Tom had opened the Chamber, it was time for his “second chance,” given that he had never been a suspect in his subsequent murders of the Riddles or Pollux Black… and given that he was not a terrorist leader, but a respectable politician implementing mostly reasonable things.

“I doubt that Dumbledore is going to try to read your thoughts to find incriminating information about you,” she said in that same low voice. “He could have voiced his suspicions any time, especially recently, when the press was attacking you every day. He didn’t. I think he wants to work with you when he can.”

“It’s because he would rather work with me than with the likes of Malfoy… or Crouch, probably,” Tom said sourly. A grim smile flickered on his face for a moment. “At least Malfoy is finished in politics. But I know that Dumbledore would rather have his _pet_ Weasley as Minister.”

“I’m not so sure of that,” Hermione said. “I’m also not sure that Weasley is Dumbledore’s ‘pet’ anymore, if indeed he ever was. Weasley has had some ideas that I am sure Dumbledore doesn’t approve of, like that awful idea to fine wizard-witch marriages. And if he _does_ want to keep the dementors, I know for a fact Dumbledore would be against that….” She let her sentence trail off as the Floo in Tom’s office began to activate and its voice system announced Dumbledore’s arrival.

The wizard emerged through the fireplace, clad in a gleaming set of red and gold satin robes. Tom reflexively scowled for a moment at the display of Gryffindor colors, but he controlled his face before the Headmaster could see.

Dumbledore beamed at them as he took his seat. He spread his hands, meeting Tom’s cold eyes with his twinkling ones.

“I understand that you require my presence to discuss removing the dementors from Azkaban,” he said. “This is a very worthy goal and I hope we can achieve it.”

Tom’s eyes grew even colder at Dumbledore’s use of the word “we.” “Well,” he said in somewhat clipped tones, “that is certainly something we hope to discuss with you, but I intend to ease the transition, if you will, by making an immediate change to Ministry capital punishment statutes.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes.” He pushed forward the final draft of the order. “This is what Hermione and I have decided to do, and we have the support of Caspar Crouch.”

Dumbledore took the paper and read it quickly. “So you think it will be necessary to keep some form of capital punishment in the law?”

“I expect so,” he said. “But I’m sure you will agree with me that this is a much better alternative.”

“Of course, I certainly do,” Dumbledore agreed. “I admit I don’t like the idea of executions, but death, after all, is just the next great adventure.”

Tom managed to suppress a sneer. “Yes. Well. The thing is, I don’t think that there would have been any support for the Dementor’s Kiss at all if there were a wider understanding of just what it really did.”

Hermione looked at Tom in alarm. _This really is not the time,_ she tried to tell him in thought, but to no avail. She wasn’t even going to mention her own idea for a law course at school yet….

“Yes,” Dumbledore agreed mildly, “there is much ignorance on that topic. Most people seem to think that it is… I believe… merely a form of Obliviation that also takes away free will and magic.”

“And with all due respect, Headmaster, I don’t think that the school properly educates students on the topic,” Tom said aggressively, leaning forward in his chair and almost glaring at the older man.

Hermione nudged him hard, and he shot her a look, but he apparently intended to continue in this vein. _What is he doing?_ she thought. _Is he actually going to try to tell Dumbledore to put Dark Arts material about souls in the curriculum? Why? This isn’t about reversing public acceptance of a horrible practice. This is about something else, to him…._

“Could you elaborate, Tom?” Dumbledore asked, still in that mild tone of voice.

Tom placed his hands on the desk, fingers entwined, and gazed at Dumbledore, being careful not to meet his eyes directly. “You and I… and Hermione… we are all educated people. I am sure we all have read extensively about all branches of magic. There are… subjects… especially in the Dark Arts, that I’ve read about… topics such as possession. If more people studied this field of magic, merely read about it, of course, then they would by necessity learn about the _full_ properties of the soul.”

Dumbledore regarded Tom silently for a moment. “You do realize, both of you”—he nodded politely to Hermione—“that Hogwarts cannot teach comprehensively about possession without addressing other subject matter that’s inherently connected to the topic… don’t you?”

“I don’t see a problem,” Tom said. “The NEWT-level Defense curriculum already teaches _about_ the Unforgivable Curses. Giving them information about something is not the same as telling them that they should do it.”

“Ah, there we must have a subtle disagreement, Tom,” Dumbledore said. “I mean—no, it’s not the same, but one of the principles behind the Hogwarts curriculum is that students should receive instruction in the kinds of magic that they will either need to use, or could encounter in their daily lives. The sorts of topics we are alluding to—they’re very Dark, _very_ rare, and in my view, should not be normalized by official instruction to seventeen- and eighteen-year-old students.”

Tom stared back at the Headmaster challengingly, still careful not to lock his gaze with the other man’s. Hermione suddenly realized what this was about. _Tom wants to demonstrate power over Albus Dumbledore on Dumbledore’s own ground,_ she thought. _That’s what this is for him. That, and… on some level… it’s almost like he_ wants _to tell Dumbledore about his own deed. It’s like boasting to the press of being a Dark wizard._

She cut in. “This has been a very interesting discussion, but we didn’t actually request your presence here to critique the school curriculum,” she said, with a pointed look at Tom. “My husband and I have a thirst for magical knowledge. I’m sure you understand.”

Dumbledore smiled mildly.

“So,” she continued, “he is going to make this change to our penal statute, and we have a goal of removing the dementors entirely. Tom believes that his political faction will support him, but we’re unsure about division in the ranks everywhere else. You are a respected figure and, to a certain degree, above the political fray… and you obviously have a great commitment to human rights.” She met his eyes, willing him to read the thought that was at the forefront of her mind about his support for the rights of sentient beings in her old timeline.

“Thank you,” he said. “I… do believe that I can persuade many of my allies on the Wizengamot to support this. Half of the public, roughly, seems to regard the dementors as protectors, which I think is very much mistaken, but the other half rightly fears them. They are not benevolent beings and, frankly, I do not think we should expose anyone to them.”

“I agree,” Hermione said. She turned to Tom, nodding slightly.

He took her cue. “Obviously we need security at the prison, but I think that in place of the dementors, we can have a combination of strong wards, both on the prison itself and the periphery of the island; a detail of Aurors or others accustomed to handling dangerous criminals; obviously confiscating wands and all magical objects; and, for the most dangerous prisoners, the use of the Imperius Curse.”

Dumbledore considered that. “You’re proposing authorizing the Ministry to use two of the three Unforgivables.”

“Should they be ‘unforgivable’ at all, though?” Tom speculated. “There are several curses that are much more brutal. Those two, at least, could have some valid uses. I’m open to alternatives, though,” he added with a slick smile. “In the new capital punishment statute, you saw that I would allow the use of a painless lethal poison, to prevent anyone from being forced to kill. If you can think of something that would work as well as Imperius, I’m all ears.”

Dumbledore was silent.

“Do let me know, or Hermione, if something occurs to you,” he said in a seemingly accommodating tone that Hermione knew was insincere. “I want this to pass, and I don’t want the proposed replacement to hurt our chances.”

Dumbledore left shortly afterward. When he had returned to Hogwarts, Hermione turned to Tom, eyes wide and disapproving.

“What was _that_ about?” she demanded, though she was sure she had worked out the answer. She just wanted to hear what he had to say for himself.

He raised an eyebrow at her. “That man is censoring information at the school.”

“That’s not what your issue is. You just want to leave your mark on Hogwarts and overrule him on a subject about the Dark Arts that you happen to have _personal_ interest in,” she said. “Don’t deny it.”

He shrugged.

“You’re being reckless, you know.”

Tom set down his quill and met her gaze fully. “Am I? Hermione, do you really think that Dumbledore doesn’t know by now about the conversation I had with Slughorn? The man’s been Deputy Headmaster for over a year, and you saw that _Prophet_ article a while back that said they were both ‘hedging’ about my interest in the Dark Arts.”

Hermione hesitated.

“And I’m not a student anymore. I have no reason to hide what I know from him.”

“As long as he thinks it’s only knowledge.”

“He can’t prove a thing about me.”

“I just wish you would be more careful,” she said. “Why court danger? But if you won’t be careful for your own sake, I wish you’d consider it for my sake, and that of the children. You’re making it awfully plain that whatever you know, I know. Please consider that.”

He looked chastened at that. “I really don’t think our conversation was as risky as you believe… it was more, ‘Yes, I did have that discussion with Sluggy, and let’s discuss the subject like intelligent scholars and adults now,’ but I take your point.”

* * *

Tom signed the directives about legal representation and capital punishment with a press photographer documenting the event. Hermione, Crouch, Dumbledore, the Chief Auror Abbott, and Griffith Diggory, Head of the Department of Mysteries, were present behind his desk for the photo op. Diggory had worked in the Veil Room before his promotion, and Hermione suspected that someone from that specific division—although the press did not know anything about what was in Mysteries—would be an ally on the capital punishment matter. She was correct.

The following day, the Wizengamot was convened to consider the Minister’s proposal, formulated in consultation with Albus Dumbledore, to change the security mechanism of Azkaban Prison. As Tom and Hermione had both expected, the Reformists and Isolationists were divided on this.

Orion Black, newly recognized as a member of the Wizengamot, knew what was expected of him by the people who had got him his seat—and truth to tell, he had no objection to getting rid of the dementors. Like much of his family—and, for that matter, like Tom himself—he did not think that many Dark spells should be punished with prison time at all, but he also knew not to argue on that issue, which would be a distraction. He gave a brief but well-spoken statement, aimed at his fellow Isolationists, about the need for wizards to treat each other humanely.

Then Septimus Weasley was recognized. Hermione observed as Tom’s eyebrows narrowed.

“Although I have my reservations,” Weasley began, “I respect the assessment of Albus Dumbledore of the dementors’ nature, and I am willing to vote in favor of removing them. However, I have grave concerns about the Minister’s proposed replacement. If we pass this as-is, then with the Minister’s recent change to our capital punishment statute, the Ministry will be using not just the Imperius Curse, but also the Killing Curse. I worry about the moral example that this sets.”

Tom motioned to the Chief Warlock to be recognized. “There are numerous curses that can kill if left unhealed. This is the _one_ fatal curse that is instant, painless, and leaves no damage to the body. But as all of you must know, the order that I signed also authorized the use of certain poisons when no one was willing to cast a curse. These are the most humane methods.”

Weasley scowled. “It sends a terrible message to say that it is all right for the Ministry to use Unforgivable Curses.”

Tom rolled his eyes. “Yes, _much_ better to send the message that the Ministry will employ demonic creatures to guard the prison or suck a prisoner’s soul out! I don’t mean to suggest that the so-called Unforgivable Curses are benign, but I think there may be too much made of the name. It refers to their punishment in law, not their inherent morality—especially these two. There are _plenty_ of curses, not all of which are Dark, that are much more brutal than the two we’re discussing.

“Yesterday I signed a directive ending the use of an unspeakable punishment and replacing it with a civilized one—which wouldn’t even be used except for the most dangerous criminals, who can’t be safely contained in Azkaban. Today I am proposing to take the security of that prison, and the treatment of fellow witches and wizards, out of the hands of monsters and put it in the hands of the best, the most powerful, of the magical community. Not every prisoner would be Imperiused, just those who, again, the wards couldn’t safely hold. There is ample precedent for Ministry officials, under select circumstances, to be allowed to do things prohibited to the general population.”

Weasley was silenced.

A few others spoke, generally brief comments in support of the plan. When this finally subsided, the Minister submitted his formal proposal to the Chief Warlock, who then called for a voice vote.

Throughout the roll call, Hermione was keeping up with the number of yeas, nays, and abstentions, loudly calling out her affirmative vote when her name was called. The roll call was not alphabetical, nor was it organized by faction. Those members who had been awarded personal seats by the Wizengamot were considered the most junior, and they voted first. The next group included those who held hereditary seats that would pass upon their death or resignation to another member of the family. Hermione was included in this group, as the representative of the Riddles—since Tom held the Minister’s vote.

When his name was called, Septimus Weasley reluctantly muttered a yea himself, much to her surprise—and Tom’s. Hermione exchanged a shocked, wide-eyed glance with him as Weasley cast his vote. This prompted several Reformists who aligned more with Weasley’s security-state view, and who had already voted, to change their votes. This was not something Hermione or Tom had anticipated, and as soon as the scramble started, they knew the vote was effectively over.

Finally the Headmaster of Hogwarts, the Head of Magical Law Enforcement, the Minister for Magic, and the Chief Warlock, all permanent members, cast their votes.

In the end, it wasn’t that close. Hermione sank back in her seat, a smile blooming on her face at what she had just achieved for the wizarding world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dumbledore in canon all but told Severus to use Avada Kedavra on him (“a quick, painless exit”). He also ordered Moody to use Imperius on students to teach them how to fight it. I think he could be pragmatic about those two, especially if the dementors are presented as the alternative.
> 
> Yes, Tom is being incredibly careless. There have been numerous serial killers who devised elaborate puzzles for the police to decipher, because on some level they wanted notoriety for their deeds. They were proud of them. I think there is a similar psychology going on with Tom.


	26. The Museum of Magic, Part I:  Foundations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Museums of magical objects and history have all been private collections. Hermione wants to change that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I am very sorry for the wait. I’m sure many of you thought I was through with this AU. In fact, I’ve begun a new job that is very satisfying but extremely stressful, and it leaves me with little time to sneakily work on anything else during the workday and little energy at the end of most days. I’d say “this kind of a delay won’t happen again,” but I can’t promise that. Let’s just say I’ll do my best.

Hermione turned away from the cabinet in Tom’s office, lost in thought. The cabinet displayed a nice collection of unique magical artifacts, including two of his three most prized antique pieces: the Elder Wand and the locket of Slytherin. The third, the Resurrection Stone, he wore on his hand.

Most rare wizarding artifacts did reside in private collections, Hermione mused. They were scattered and not well accounted for. Hogwarts was something of an exception; the school housed many valuable items, but it too had an entire secret room—the Room of Hidden Things—with rarities certainly hidden amongst rubbish, unbeknownst to anyone. The wizarding world did not have truly public museums, a discovery that had shocked Hermione when she had first realized it.

She had, in seventh year, urged Tom to donate the Elder Wand to a museum, but no wonder he had instantly scorned that idea. It would have meant donating it to Hogwarts—in his mind, donating it to Albus Dumbledore, the very person he had wanted to keep it from.

Ever since Hermione had become aware of the absence of wizarding museums, she had wanted to do something about it, but until a couple of years ago, she hadn’t had the capacity. Tom had only become Minister about a year and a half ago, and before that, he had been Head of Magical Law Enforcement—not exactly in a position to take up that particular cause to the former Minister. She could have started one with funds from her own organization, but that would have been a large enough investment that it would have meant cutting back on research activities. Besides, a truly public museum should be supported by the Ministry.

Tom would surely approve of the idea, she thought. He had enthusiastically created Hogsmeade Park when she had suggested that to him. He was in favor of public works for the wizarding world. The concept fit well into his philosophy of Wizarding Nationalism, and a museum—a repository of magical history that was open to the public—would certainly be something that he would like. _Especially if I don’t suggest that he donate anything of his own,_ she thought wryly.

He was at the office late today, but he would be back soon. She left his home office and headed into the family room where the children were.

* * *

Later that night, after Hermione had explained her idea to Tom, he sat back in bed, thinking. “I think… that’s a brilliant idea,” he finally said, gazing at her.

She beamed. “Then you would be willing to put the resources of the Ministry behind it?”

“Certainly,” he said at once. He furrowed his brow. “It might fit in my Office of Social Welfare… it would be a disbursement of money for social good… or I could create a new office specifically for it… but whom to put in charge….” He trailed off, musing.

Hermione’s face had quickly fallen, her expression twisting into dismay and then outrage as he thought aloud. “I beg your pardon?” she sputtered.

He looked at her inquiringly. “What’s the matter?”

She gaped at him. “This is something Advance is perfectly capable of running.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t. But you asked—”

“To be quite blunt, Tom, I asked for _money,”_ she said. “My idea was that the museum would be funded partly by public gold and partly by my organization, but my people would administer it.”

“There wouldn’t be any need for you to poach from your own ranks, though. There are many people in the Ministry, protégés, who’d be glad of an appointment to a major new office.”

Hermione heaved a breath in annoyance. “Tom, listen to me. I don’t want one of your political people running this. It’s not appropriate, for one—museums are supposed to be about scholarship—but also, this is _my_ idea.”

Tom was scowling. “You’ve never objected before when I made your ideas into reality through the Ministry.”

“Most of them were ideas about law and policy.”

“Hogsmeade Park—”

“—is a public park. Governments run public parks. It’s more suitable for my organization, which does research and scholarship, to run a museum.”

“With Ministry funding.”

“Well, yes. In part.” She touched his shoulder, trying to control her visible annoyance with him. He was _so_ possessive. “Tom, I want to do this one myself. It’s my idea, and the Ministry isn’t necessary for anything except helping to support it.”

Tom was silent for a minute before responding. “I suppose I understand why you feel that way, but people are going to want Wizengamot or Ministry representatives involved if public gold goes toward it. There has never been anything like this in the wizarding world in Britain, and some of them won’t understand the purpose of it at first. Too much lowbrow Muggle culture has insinuated its way into our world,” he sneered. “So they’re familiar with Muggle-style commercialism and gimmicks, but they’re so ignorant that they don’t actually know that’s what it is—and they certainly don’t know about Muggle museums—”

“Tom.”

“I’m afraid they’ll see it as the Ministry sending a large sum of money to the Minister’s wife for a strange project that they don’t understand. It’ll look corrupt.”

For a moment Hermione wanted to hex him. After the various stunts he had pulled over the years—and got away with!—he thought that _her_ idea would look corrupt? But she tried to honestly consider his words instead of focusing on that part. “I think you’re a bit too cynical this time,” she said slowly. “Almost every witch and wizard in Britain went to school at Hogwarts. The school’s artifact collection isn’t all in one place, certainly, but the books are—”

“Except for certain ones that _Dumbledore_ disapproves of.”

_“Tom.”_

He sighed in resignation to let her finish.

“My point is, they understand the purpose of a library. They all have familiarity with one. And many of the rich families _do_ have their own artifact collections. For that matter, there’s Borgin and Burkes, which most people know about. It’s not an abnormal concept at all. I don’t think they’ll have any difficulty seeing the purpose of the museum, and after all, it’s not as if the Ministry would be sending money to me _personally._ It’s going to be a public facility for everyone to enjoy. I might even offer free admission.”

“I hope you’re right about what people think, but I think I’ll still have to appoint someone to the museum board.”

Hermione still didn’t like the idea. It seemed just as much an imposition to her as, in her old life, Cornelius Fudge appointing Dolores Umbridge to meddle with Hogwarts. This was her vision and her project. She understood that he liked the idea—obviously, since it fit with his philosophy of wizarding culture and wizarding national pride—and she knew that it would be impossible to keep him away from something in which he was legitimately interested. But she did _not_ like the thought of having to get the approval of one of his hangers-on in order to do what she wanted with an entity that her organization would administer and partially fund.

She met his eyes with her own. “Appoint yourself, then.”

His dark eyes widened. “Myself?”

“Yes,” she said firmly. “If I must have someone from the Ministry on the museum’s board, I’d rather it were you than some flunky of yours. I’d rather consult with you, since you clearly want a voice in it anyway.”

His eyebrows rose. “Was it that obvious?”

“It was,” she said, smirking. “So… do you really want one of your underlings to have authority—even a small amount—over the direction of a big project of mine? Imagine the satisfaction that person would feel, having power over me.” She felt a bit of disgust with herself for manipulating him this way, but she was certain that this argument would convince him.

She was correct. Immediately his face changed. “Well, since you put it that way….”

“And it’s no more corrupt than Dumbledore having a vote on the Wizengamot while also being Headmaster of Hogwarts,” she added. “In fact, I’d say it looks _less_ corrupt than it would if you appointed a political crony to the spot.”

“There’s something in that,” he agreed, thinking about it. “It’s saying that this museum is something I have a sincere personal interest in—something I’m taking responsibility for, to a degree—instead of using a public institution of history and culture to promote members of my political faction.”

“Exactly.”

“I would rather have a permanent charter and guaranteed funding for it, which will require the Wizengamot to vote,” he mused, “but that’ll also allow me to be there as a representative of the Wizengamot rather than the Ministry. Just to be on the safe side,” he added, smirking sideways at her. “I don’t intend to give up my job.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow at him at that comment. He surely didn’t mean— _no,_ she corrected herself at once, _he does mean it: Minister for life. And his life…._ But no, she would not pursue that line of thought. It was painful and complicated.

She recalled that he used to have an objection to the concept of life-appointed, hereditary Wizengamot seats. That was before the individual vote that the Wizengamot had granted to her—at that time, he held the Law Enforcement Head’s seat—was converted to a family seat. His opposition had evaporated at that point. Evidently, he had just wanted the Wizengamot to place his family on equal footing with the others.

“Tom,” she finally said, “I meant what I said. I’d rather consult directly with you about this, especially since you obviously like the idea.”

“It’s a good idea. The wizarding world needs more awareness of its own high culture and history.”

“Yes… but I do want something to be clear. We’ll _work together_ on this. You’ll act in your capacity as a member of the board of the—the National Museum of Magic, or whatever it’ll be called—and _not_ as the Minister. _I_ will be chairwoman of the board. I’ll listen to you… but you are not going to be my ‘boss’ on this.”

Tom was staring at her, a slight grimace on his face as she described how she would have a higher position of authority than he would. He was not used to that. She had her own career, of course, but he simply was not involved at all in most of what her organization did. When they worked together on something, he usually did have more power. But… this was her idea, he recalled. _And after all,_ he comforted himself, _she wants me involved personally, not through a representative, because I’m interested in it._ That consideration placated him.

He met her eyes and nodded in consent. She smiled back at him, her eyes sparkling, looking delighted. It always made her irresistible when he knew she was happy because of him, and this was no exception. With a smirk blossoming on his face, Tom reached for her and pulled her down with him.

As he drew his fingers along her body teasingly, making her gasp and heave her breaths in a way that sent his blood rushing exactly where he wanted it, he reflected that she wouldn’t mind letting him be her “boss” in _these_ circumstances.

* * *

Tom found it difficult to stay in the background when it came to a topic that held his interest, but he had promised Hermione that he would not take this over. To that end, she had arranged the meetings in her own office. They were meeting with Dumbledore, which ordinarily would have irritated Tom to the point that he wouldn’t _want_ to speak—unless he was trying to goad Dumbledore in some way—but this was an exception, so it was all he could do to keep from interrupting Hermione and taking charge.

“It’s a fine idea,” Dumbledore was saying. A genuine smile adorned his face, so his words were apparently sincere. “The wizarding world would greatly benefit from a public museum. There is so little interest in our history….”

“Well,” Hermione said, smiling Dumbledore’s own signature mild smile back at him, “the course ‘History of Magic’ is not taught in the most interesting way. How many students actually take the NEWT-level courses? Binns is… perhaps not the best instructor.”

Dumbledore looked uncomfortable. “Binns haunts his classroom because he cannot move on. He cannot conceive of any existence other than teaching that subject matter. It would be cruel to him to ban him from the classroom and take that away from him….”

“But at the expense of knowledge?” Hermione questioned. “At the expense of offering a job to a _living_ person who has extensive knowledge of magical history?”

“Are we going to discuss the Hogwarts curriculum?” Tom interjected, pointedly meeting Hermione’s eye. “Because if we are, I have some suggestions to make as well.”

“No, you’re right,” Hermione said at once. “This is about the museum. Whatever the causes, there really is a need for it. If it’s designed properly, it would make magical history interesting to everyone.”

“It would,” Dumbledore agreed. “Of course, one must be careful that the museum does not become a vehicle for any interests to promote their own positions.”

Tom shifted in the background, his robes rustling.

“I wouldn’t let that happen to it,” Hermione said quickly. “It will be a repository of important historical objects and a source of facts.”

“Of course, but another aspect of history is interpretation, and it is all too easy for ideology to get in the way of that.”

 _You would know,_ Tom thought, but he kept his mouth shut. Hermione would not appreciate it if he hijacked this.

“That’s true, but that’s the very reason why I am determined to keep it under the auspices of a nonprofit research organization,” she said smoothly, “instead of being subject to the politics of the Ministry. That should help considerably.”

Dumbledore managed a wry smile. “Considerably, yes. A panacea, though….”

What was he trying to imply? Hermione knew quite well that wealthy philanthropists often tried to impose their own priorities and views on any projects that they funded. She knew how to handle them, and most of them knew what to expect when they made their donations. They knew they wouldn’t be the only ones doing so, and they knew that an entity that was not political—at least, not explicitly so—would be harder to sway. Money would be coming to the Museum of Magic from numerous sources, so no one interest would be able to threaten it with closure by withholding gold.

Hermione decided to shift the topic slightly to something else that she had hoped to mention to Dumbledore while he was here. “I have experience in the matter,” she said. “But I was actually wondering about the possibility of having artifacts from Hogwarts featured in the museum.”

Dumbledore quirked his eyebrows. “Which artifacts do you mean?”

“Nothing that would be required for classroom usage,” she said at once, “but there are other important pieces. The Sword of Gryffindor….”

Tom perked up. He already knew that the sword had made appearances in Hermione’s original time, and he had no interest anymore in turning Founders’ artifacts into Horcruxes, but he had not realized that Hermione thought it was at the school _currently._

Dumbledore sighed. “Yes, I currently have possession of the Sword of Gryffindor.”

Tom’s eyes widened.

“However, that sword is linked to the Sorting Hat. If a Gryffindor student needed to use it, it would be magically drawn from its current location, even a warded museum.”

“How often would it happen that a Gryffindor student needed aid while wearing the Sorting Hat?” Hermione challenged. “That hat is in the Headmaster’s office for the full year, except for one day… and the school really shouldn’t be under such threat that anyone would _need_ to call for aid.”

“It would be embarrassing to the museum if it did happen, though,” Dumbledore pointed out.

Tom could not help himself. “Is that really it?” he challenged. “Are you sure it’s not just that you think the sword belongs at the school, since it was Gryffindor’s, instead of at a museum?”

Dumbledore’s bright blue eyes briefly met Tom’s dark ones. “I don’t know, Tom,” he said quietly. “Do you think the Elder Wand belongs at a museum, or in your own home?”

Tom sputtered for a moment in protest, his eyes widening. He had not realized that Dumbledore knew about the Elder Wand, but there was no point in denying it now. “The Elder Wand is _unusable_ now,” he snarled. “Besides, I won it. Nobody won the sword. It’s linked to the school because of a charm, but that could probably be severed.”

“That would be a shame. The sword has such long history with Hogwarts.”

Hermione gaped at Tom, then Dumbledore. “Let’s _all_ take a step back,” she urged. “There is nothing to be gained by sniping at each other. I merely mentioned the Sword of Gryffindor as a possibility. There are other objects, though….” She turned to Dumbledore earnestly. “The Room of Requirement—I presume you know about it?”

Dumbledore nodded.

“Well, its manifestation as the Room of Hidden Things… there must be countless artifacts there that are of historical interest. It would be worth investigating.”

He considered. “It probably would be, yes. Of course, I would not want to steal something that a living student left in the room for safekeeping….”

“It would have to be a living, _current_ student… and I don’t know how you would find out if something belonged to someone. If you made a public announcement that museum people were going to go to the room and retrieve anything of value, students would try to claim that things were theirs when they weren’t,” Hermione said. She frowned, thinking. “Perhaps if you were very vague about the description of where the room was… but specific enough that anyone who _had_ left something there would know to get it….”

Dumbledore nodded. “I expect I will have to do something like that. It’s a good idea, though—examining the Room of Requirement in that incarnation. I probably should have gone through it years ago.”

* * *

Hermione did additional leg work for the next several days, soliciting support from numerous prominent people and institutions in the wizarding community—including some with whom she would have rather not worked. However, it was necessary.

Abraxas Malfoy was not one of those people. His supporters were becoming fewer by the day, with even those who agreed with his politics not wanting to align with him personally. But despite the daily exposure of ever more of his soon-to-be-ex-wife’s hideous memories, he still felt the need to comment. Perhaps, Hermione thought, he felt that he had nothing to lose.

 _“Historical artifacts of the wizarding world belong in private homes,”_ he declared to the _Daily Prophet._ _“They are the treasures of the families who passed them down, not show pieces for public consumption.”_

When Tom had read that quotation, his brow had furrowed in thought. For a moment, Hermione was concerned. It was distinctly possible that Tom, with his possessive tendencies, agreed with that viewpoint and just hadn’t considered it until now.

But then he set down the newspaper and gazed at her. _“I’m_ not going to send out the Elder Wand, the Resurrection Stone, or the Slytherin locket for ‘public consumption,’ but I might feel differently about it if I owned a surplus of historical artifacts instead of just those three.”

Hermione sighed, smiled, and shook her head affectionately. “That argument might be very persuasive, though,” she said, “so I thought of another option. Families wouldn’t have to actually give or sell their property to the museum. They could loan it instead. There would be cards on the exhibits that mentioned if something was on loan to the museum, giving positive recognition to the people who lent it.”

Tom nodded. “That might do better. We could have new exhibits, too, and plus, there would be the awareness that an item that was on loan might not be there for years. It would draw more visitors.”

* * *

It turned out that the suggestion of loaning items appealed a great deal to Orion Black. When Hermione and Tom met with him, he eagerly expressed his support for the museum and promised that he would both vote for it on the Wizengamot—which they expected— _and_ whip votes from his fellow pureblood Isolationists. They had _not_ expected that.

“He wants to differentiate himself from Malfoy,” Tom said after that meeting. “He’s still intimidated by me, afraid of what I might do to his family, so he wants to prove to me that he doesn’t take direction from my enemies.” He smirked.

“And he just might think that the museum is a good idea itself,” Hermione said tartly.

“That too,” Tom said agreeably. He was in a good mood. Although this was Hermione’s project, he was well aware that he would receive some credit for it as well. And he should, he thought; he would be on the board of directors, and although Hermione had taken the lead in these preliminary meetings, he was there for all of them, giving the impression—the _correct_ impression—that it was a partnership. A popular project like this would help reaffirm his footing as Minister and undo much of the political damage that had been done during his first year and a half.

Besides, the museum would give him a chance to do what he apparently would not be able to do with Hogwarts: promote a different view of magical history and the Dark Arts.

He knew it couldn’t be too overt and obvious. The content of exhibits had to be factual and not blatantly slanted, or it would backfire. But that still left a lot of flexibility, especially in the _kinds_ of exhibits that were present. Some in the wizarding world would not want it to say too much about the time of persecution leading to the International Statute of Secrecy, or if they did, it would be that insipid, lying narrative that Bathilda Bagshot promoted: "No witches or wizards were ever killed; we formed a secluded society to make it easier to control bad wizards who liked to torment Muggles, or to keep Muggles from wanting magic to do everything for them." _Utter rubbish, and probably just a conscience salve for Bagshot for the Wizarding Supremacism of her infamous great-nephew,_ Tom thought scornfully.

Tom was not going to take over Hermione’s museum, but he _did_ intend to put his foot down about this issue. The lies of _A History of Magic_ would not be endorsed in the National Museum—not on his watch. It was true that there had not been as much persecution in the United Kingdom as there had been elsewhere in the world, but there had _definitely_ been killings of magical people by Muggles in the West, and the museum was going to have material about it.

Tom was also going to broach the idea of presenting a more… _balanced…_ approach to the Dark Arts. The branch of magic was ancient, long predating “light magic” as a way of casting spells. It was a terrible shame that modern usage had conflated “the Dark Arts” with “magic that causes harm.” Virtually any spell could cause harm. One could die of a broken neck from a tripping jinx, after all. The real difference was that the Dark Arts used the will of the caster to power the spell. This, unlike the other class of spells, meant that in the Dark Arts, truly great sorcerers could distinguish themselves by the power of their magic. Herpo, Merlin, Morgana… Salazar Slytherin… for that matter, Tom suspected Rowena Ravenclaw had sometimes practiced the Dark Arts—which reminded him, he needed to make a certain trip abroad before long… Grindelwald… even Albus Dumbledore _knew_ Dark Magic, although he did not usually perform it. Hermione was the same. All great sorcerers.

 _And myself,_ he completed the thought—though perhaps it wasn’t a great idea to include himself in a museum exhibit about the long history of Dark Magic.

There would be an exhibit, though. He would make sure of it.

* * *

At last, the Wizengamot had convened to consider Hermione’s proposal to charter and contribute funding to a national public museum of magical history. The outcome of the vote did not appear in doubt. Rumor had it that Orion Black had lobbied the vast majority of the old families to support the cause—even to loan some of their belongings to the museum, a gesture that would garner them approval from the general public—and of course, the Wizarding Nationalists were unified behind their Minister, as always. Albus Dumbledore was also apparently supporting the mission, along with the scholarly inclined allies of his among Reformists and Reformist-leaners.

However, there _was_ opposition, and as the members of the Wizengamot filed into the imposing room that day, the opponents of the museum were easy to identify. They were seething, with looks of grim determination on their faces. Hermione and Tom prepared to listen to them make their angry rants before their—hopefully—inevitable defeat.

The Chief Warlock called the body to order, and Hermione formally introduced her motion. There was a smattering of applause as she presented her argument for the museum and sat down.

Then Septimus Weasley gestured to be recognized. Hermione tilted her head to look at him. His spectacles were almost falling off his nose from his trembling. He stood up, turned around, and glared across the rows of seats.

“I want to make very clear, I do not oppose knowledge,” he said at once. “But today I have been delegated to speak on behalf of the _majority_ of the Reformist faction in expressing our grave concerns about this proposed National Museum of Magic.” He shoved his spectacles up his nose.

“Here it comes,” Tom murmured under his breath to Hermione.

“First of all, why exactly does the wizarding world need a museum of history? We _have_ History of Magic, a required course for five years at the greatest school of magic in the world.” Weasley gave a simpering look to Albus Dumbledore, apparently hoping to persuade him to switch his vote with naked flattery. “No, this is not strictly an educational venture, I am afraid. There is another agenda at work.

“I realize that with the united support of the Isolationists and the Wizarding Nationalists, this museum will move forward, but I would urge my compatriots to consider what sort of platform that it will likely promote in its narrative of our history, with _that_ alliance backing it. It’s widely known that they do not credit the history textbook used in our school, at least when it comes to the purpose of the Statute of Secrecy, but instead promote an anti-Muggle explanation of our founding law. And in addition, the Minister is an acknowledged Dark wizard! What version of _that_ will he and his wife put in this museum, I wonder? Will it be filled with dangerous Dark artifacts, while also presumably being open to children or even Squib family members of wizards?

“If this were entirely a private venture, those involved could do as they saw fit, but I object to the use of public gold to finance a political project. I would urge Reformists to vote against this and not give it the veneer of cross-party support.” He glared out again before sitting down.

Tom was going to motion to be recognized, but Hermione shot him a pointed look. He scowled for a moment but deferred. The Chief Warlock yielded the floor to her.

“Mr. Weasley,” Hermione said, “in the first place, one can retain an interest in history beyond the Hogwarts years… or develop it as a young child. In fact, the existence of the museum will serve to increase interest in the subject, something that is sorely needed. You mention History of Magic at Hogwarts, but that class has the lowest average OWL score, the lowest pass rate, and the lowest percentage of students who attempt the NEWT-level courses of all the subjects that are taught. I would wager,” she said, forcing a wry smile on her face, “that a majority of us in this very chamber napped during that class at least once!” There were appreciative chuckles, and Hermione continued. “This needs to change, and the museum should help greatly with that.

“Secondly,” she continued, “I’m very disappointed that you think I would allow the museum to become a propaganda vehicle for anyone. It will be managed not by my husband the Minister, but by a scholarly organization that is unaffiliated with the political factions. Furthermore, there are valid reasons to disagree with the explanation of the Statute of Secrecy presented in _A History of Magic,_ so the museum will present a balanced perspective of historical events. But if you _are_ concerned that it will serve the agenda of its private donors, that’s a reason to provide public funding and multi-factional support.”

There were murmurings throughout the chamber as she concluded her remarks and took her seat again. Tom smiled at her and patted her arm approvingly. She smiled back.

The Chief Warlock held the vote soon thereafter. Dumbledore voted in favor, as he had indicated he would, and it was apparent halfway through that the measure would pass easily. But Weasley nonetheless cast a loud “Nay,” a mulish glare on his face, when his name was called. His allies did the same. Evidently they believed they were making a principled stand.

To tell the truth, Hermione _was_ concerned that Tom would try to turn the museum into the “Wizarding Nationalist Propaganda Institute.” He had indicated to her that he particularly wanted to have features about the time of persecution and the history of the Dark Arts. She could not say it surprised her, and she could not really say no—because if she did, _that_ would arguably entail promoting an agenda by omission of information.

 _I see what Dumbledore meant now,_ she thought as the Wizengamot dismissed and people gathered up their belongings. She took Tom’s arm and Disapparated with him to the privacy of her own office.

He dusted himself off and smirked triumphantly at her.

She smiled back. “We’re committed now,” she said, squeezing his hand. “So we have to do it right. I’m not going to thwart your ideas—they _are_ a part of our history—but since Weasley and his cronies already suspect that our intent is to push propaganda through the museum, we’ll have to be careful. Nothing should go into exhibits about controversial topics that isn’t supported with cold, hard fact.”

Tom nodded. “I agree—and I had a couple of ideas about that.”

“Oh?”

He sat down in the nearest chair. “Yes. For the Statute of Secrecy exhibit, I think we should include some items from Wizarding America. That was one place where it got really bad, after all. Even Weasley can’t deny that we were indeed persecuted there. I know a former MACUSA President who now resides in magical Boston, and he has quite a collection of historical items pertaining to that—pamphlets, broadsides, and so forth. Even the wand of an ancestor of his who was killed by witch-hunters.”

Hermione’s eyes widened.

“They don’t have a museum either, so I’d like to take a family trip there, and negotiate having the items loaned to us,” he said.

Her imagination took flight. She had never been to that part of the world. Fuzzy images of a harbor, of Georgian-style architecture, of yellowed documents with spidery old-fashioned handwriting, filled her mind. “I’d love to do that,” she said feelingly.

He smiled. “And there’s something else that I thought of. When I was in school, before you arrived, I was very interested in Founders’ artifacts.”

She snorted.

“Well, I asked the Grey Lady of Ravenclaw about the location of the Ravenclaw diadem, and she told me.”

“Yes, I know,” she said. “I mean—I assumed that it happened this time as well, but that you did not choose to pursue it.”

“I’m pursuing it now,” he said. “Not for the same reason—I don’t need multiples—but for the museum.”

Hermione considered that. He had owned the Slytherin locket for years without being tempted to break his promise to stop at one Horcrux. The diadem wouldn’t present a greater temptation than an artifact to which he actually had a personal connection, and it was a shame that it lay buried in a forest in Albania. It was exactly the sort of thing that should be in the museum: a legendary item belonging to Wizarding Britain, long thought lost. In fact, its discovery would draw people to the museum in droves.

She nodded slowly. “I like that,” she said. “I’m afraid I don’t have any advance knowledge of exactly where it is, but I’m sure we can find it. Yes. Let’s do that too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why isn’t there a national public museum of magic in the books? Like the absence of wizarding parks (which these two have also remedied), it’s a head-scratcher once it occurs to you. I’m not against frivolity like Tom is, but the wizarding world really is shallow and commercialistic in canon, and it’s not because “they’re children’s books.” Children love museums… and besides, the books are Young Adult and pretty dark. The problem is that anything that _isn’t_ frivolous—any historical artifact or advanced subject matter—is rare, secret, or hidden, and then presented with a certain degree of wariness or disapproval, as something that people would do better to avoid. It’s a fantasy trope, but it’s anti-intellectual when the “One Ring principle” applies to _everything_ advanced.
> 
> In _Deathly Hallows_ , Harry thought that—unlike Tom Riddle and himself—Dumbledore was too straight-laced to discover the Room of Hidden Things, but I don’t believe it. Maybe as a student, but as a teacher and Headmaster? We _know_ that Dumbledore hides things.
> 
> The belief that Western wizards were never really harmed in the Inquisition/Reformation era, and that the Statute of Secrecy was meant to keep wizards from being pestered by Muggles for magic solutions, is something that is in the early books, told to Harry by Ron Weasley and claimed to be in _A History of Magic. Fantastic Beasts_ retcons it, and frankly, I like the FB version much more because it is more realistic and morally complicated. But for a false belief to take hold in Britain in the canon timeline means that there were parties heavily invested in pushing it… such as Bagshot (definitely) and Weasleys (probably). I do think that Bagshot’s history book is an attempt to distance herself from Grindelwald, including from his (correct) contention that Muggles could harm wizards.
> 
> There will be two more chapters of this plot arc. As hinted, the Riddles—all of them—are going to Wizarding Boston and then to Albania.


	27. The Museum of Magic, Part II:  Uncomfortable History

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Those who forget history are doomed to repeat it. Tom, Hermione, and their children take a family trip to Wizarding New England to retrieve some historical artifacts from the time of persecution.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This turned out quite long, so I hope you enjoy it! There's some heavy MACUSA bashing, in case there is anyone reading this who likes them.

“I don’t understand why _we_ can’t go to Mr. Fiske’s dinner,” Madeline groused, clutching her vivid green valise and scowling.

Hermione raised an eyebrow at her daughter. “Mr. Fiske’s dinner is going to be very late, past your bedtime. We’re going to do all sorts of fun things, though. We’re going to see magical Boston. Besides, you’ll get to play with Mr. Fiske’s nephews that evening.”

Madeline continued to scowl but did not protest again. Hermione found that she could not be annoyed. Madeline was of an age where she wanted to do more “adult” activities than she was really able to. Hermione herself had gone through the same phase.

Tom and Hermione had made arrangements to visit Gregor Fiske, a former President of the Magical Congress of the United States, to take notes on the history of some important magical artifacts he owned and to acquire those artifacts for the British national museum. They—or, rather, Advance—now had a building for the museum. It was on Knockturn Alley, because that area was much less expensive, but it would be close enough to Diagon Alley—and out of the dodgier parts of Knockturn—that it should have plenty of visitors. Even now, magical renovation crews were gutting the place and redecorating it.

Because trans-oceanic Apparition was very risky, especially for Side-Alongs, the Riddles had obtained Portkeys to New York from the American magical government. They were set to activate in a few minutes. Annoyingly, they were going to turn up in New York City first, because of bureaucratic requirement, but from there they were going to go to magical Boston and meet Fiske.

Hermione had not met him in person. Tom had corresponded, and apparently the man wanted to tell them some back story about the historical artifacts. It promised to be interesting.

The Portkeys began to hum with magical resonance. Hermione and Tom made sure that their older children were clutching tightly, and as they began to activate, the family collectively closed its eyes.

* * *

Hermione heaved her breath as she stopped spinning. Virgil was almost ready to retch onto the floor, and Madeline looked rather sick herself. Cynthia, in Hermione’s arms, let out a howl of protest, which echoed throughout the unwelcoming, chilly halls of MACUSA.

The baby’s cries continued, even as Hermione attempted to quiet her. The spinning had probably given her a headache. Hermione hushed the little girl, cuddling her close. The outraged cries turned into feeble, infrequent whimpers of complaint, much to her relief.

Tom’s head snapped up as a pair of MACUSA officials approached. “We must scan all visitors for dangerous objects,” one of them said officiously. She glared at the still-whimpering Cynthia. “And do use a Silencio on that child. Excessively noisy or disruptive travelers aren’t permitted to leave MACUSA until they calm down.” The pair of bureaucrats proceeded to pat the entire family down with their wands.

Hermione was taken aback at the rudeness. “I beg your pardon?” she sputtered. She gazed around. No one was working who might be disturbed by the baby’s sounds. This area was even marked “Visitor Receiving Hall.”

Tom glared at the pair. “Excuse me. I am the British Minister for Magic, and this is _not_ the reception I believe we are supposed to have.”

The bureaucrats stopped abruptly. “What?” the other one said, aghast.

Tom stepped forward aggressively. “You heard me. Whoever created these Portkeys clearly made a mistake by charming them to take us to the common receiving hall.”

The pair quickly cast silent charms to confirm the identities of their guests. Their names appeared briefly in the air in small glowing letters and then faded. With looks of utter horror on their faces, the officials led the Riddles out of the grim hall.

The rude official took off, clearly wanting to be out of the Riddles’ sight, while the other stayed nearby and sheepishly avoided looking at them. Within minutes, the current President of MACUSA appeared, a middle-aged witch with dark hair in a pageboy cut. She looked embarrassed. Beside her was an older clean-cut wizard whom Tom obviously recognized. This, then, must be Gregor Fiske.

“Mr. and Mrs. Riddle. Violet Parsons. I apologize deeply for this mistake,” the woman said feelingly, shaking their hands in turn. “I have already initiated an inquiry to determine how this happened. You are, of course, clear to move about in this country.”

Tom smiled thinly. “Is there a recent problem with people importing dangerous magical objects?”

“It’s standard procedure. _Your_ family was not supposed to have been caught in it, though.” She turned to the wizard beside her. “This is Gregor Fiske. Mr. Fiske—Tom and Hermione Riddle, and their children.”

Hermione introduced the children to Fiske. Cynthia, fortunately, had stopped whimpering. Madeline and Virgil were still distressed from the aggressive magical scan that MACUSA had begun, but they were relieved to know that things were moving along as they should now.

After the usual niceties, and after the Riddles’ diplomatic credentials had been fully established, Fiske turned to the family with a wry smile on his face. “Let’s get out of this wretched pit,” he said in an undertone once President Parsons was gone. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled a large piece of what looked like tattered sailcloth from it, evidently another Portkey.

Hermione was surprised at the heavy upper-class Boston accent that he exhibited… but it was interesting, not unpleasant. She nodded and took hold of the banner. The children and Tom followed suit. Fiske said the password and the unpleasant whirling sensation began again.

They landed in a pleasant foyer of a private home. Hermione glanced around and saw teal-green walls, darkly stained wooden flooring, a many-paned double door, and furniture that appeared to be eighteenth-century Muggle style. A large magical painting of a stately, elegant black-haired witch in 1600s middle-class clothing gazed airily at the guests.

“So these are the ones who are here for my wand,” the painting spoke as Fiske appeared in the hall. “I hope that the entire wretched tale doesn’t become fodder for gawking English.”

Fiske raised his eyes to the painting. “The Minister and the President understand perfectly well what is not suitable for public release, Cordelia.”

The painted figure stared back impassively. Hermione could not help but smile at being referred to as “the President.” It was true, after all—she was the president of her organization—but it sounded at least as prestigious as Tom’s title, used in the same sentence.

Fiske showed them into his parlor, which was also made up in the style of Colonial America. Hermione could not help but gaze admiringly at the furnishings. She cast an idle glance at her own valise and suddenly gasped.

“Mr. Fiske,” she said at once, “if you don’t mind—I brought my kneazle in this case. He’s twelve years old. May I let him out? He’s well-behaved.”

Fiske laughed. “You smuggled in a kneazle! Well _done._ Of course you can let him out.”

“I wouldn’t call it ‘smuggling,’” Hermione said, opening the case and summoning Sable from the magically expanded depths. The fluffy black cat emerged, looking very aggrieved. He promptly jumped into Virgil’s lap, snubbing Hermione. The little boy was delighted and began to pet him.

Fiske smiled. “The customs officials would have had a big problem with that. There was an incident a few decades ago with a British wizard smuggling magical animals into this country. It was a good thing that your husband put a stop to that search at once. If I may say so—and you mustn’t repeat this—they’re out of control.” He shook his head.

“What were they searching for?” Tom asked.

“Animals, plants, and anything Dark.”

He looked immensely relieved. “I see,” he said.

Hermione shot him a look. _Surely he didn’t bring—_ but she stopped that thought at once. He had brought it. Of course he had.

Fiske offered them refreshments, which they accepted. An elf brought them bowls of clam chowder. Hermione tasted it. It wasn’t bad, she thought. She glanced up and saw that Tom seemed to like it as well. Encouraged by their parents’ reactions, the children began to sip theirs.

“My other elf is getting my nephews from my sister’s house,” Fiske said conversationally. “I don’t know when they’ll arrive, but in the meantime, I can show you the artifacts.” He set the empty bowl and cup on a side table and rose from his chair. The Riddles set theirs aside and followed him to another room in the house, Virgil clutching the cat.

This room, Hermione observed with delight—and, she noticed, so did Tom—was a library. Fiske directed them to a particular locked cabinet. He withdrew his wand and flicked it, opening it, and lifted out a wooden box.

“These are the artifacts from the bad times,” he said, carrying it to the nearest table and setting it down. He took out a thin, yellowed flyer advertising a bounty for witches, dated from 1670.

Tom was glaring blackly at it. “Is that a Scourer advertisement?”

Fiske nodded. “Fragile as it looks, it’s magically preserved. I understand that your country has suppressed this part of our history.”

Tom clutched his own wand. “Yes,” he said tightly. “I have done my utmost to fight it politically, but those who persist in promoting a pro-Muggle narrative of our history still have considerable power.”

Fiske raised an eyebrow. “We call them No-Majs.”

“We have some linguistic differences,” Tom said. “What else is here?” He peered over the side of the box.

Hermione strode forward. She could not say she was surprised, but Tom was already taking over this. It _was_ his idea to meet this wizard, but this was still her museum, and she did not want her authority to be diminished in Fiske’s eyes. She gazed into the box next to him and saw a collection of sundry items: more papers, a book of magic that appeared stained with blood, a dusty wand, a set of clothing very similar to the dress painted in the foyer portrait….

“What was your ancestor’s name? Cordelia something?” Hermione asked.

“Cordelia Orne. She was from a very prominent family in Salem. She….” Fiske trailed off uncertainly, glancing at Madeline and Virgil.

“They know her fate,” Hermione said at once. “They know about persecution. It’s quite all right.”

“Yes, well, there are aspects of the story that are rather disturbing and dark,” Fiske said uneasily, in a voice too low for the children to hear.

Hermione considered. Things did get rather grim in New England during the seventeenth century for magical people. Perhaps it might be too much for them.

“We can discuss the history later, then,” she said. “What about the rest of the artifacts? What do you have here?”

Fiske summoned the contents out in turn. “These were letters by my ancestor to members of her family,” he said, lifting out a bound parcel. “The ones on top talk about her fear of the Scourers. If you don’t object, I’d like to keep the ones that don’t make any reference to the persecution.”

“Of course,” Hermione said. “Your private family history is just that.”

He withdrew the heavy clothing, which consisted of a black full-skirted gown with a large white lacy collar. “This was hers, too—no real connection to the persecution, but something to maybe humanize her a bit. There’s also a non-magical portrait of her with her husband and son….” He summoned a small oval frame. “It’s been preserved too, of course, but this was public, for the benefit of any No-Maj visitors. Couldn’t have moving portraits when they came sniffing around.” He took out the damaged book, which Hermione could see now was a text about magical plants. “This—now this is bad.”

“Is that her blood?” Tom asked.

Fiske shook his head. “We don’t think so. There’s reason to believe that she… well, no, it’s not just ‘reason to believe’; she _definitely_ used Dark Magic.”

Hermione and Tom glanced into the box. It was now empty except for something that appeared to gleam. _A knife?_ Hermione wondered.

Fiske covered the box and pasted a false smile on his face. “Not now.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “My elf should be here with the boys any moment now—”

The pop of Apparition echoed through the house, just outside the library.

“That’ll be them,” Fiske said.

The library doors opened, revealing a female house-elf flanked by a pair of boys, one who looked about Madeline’s age and one who looked a little younger than Virgil.

“This is the British First Family,” Fiske instructed his nephews. “Greet them.”

The boys mumbled greetings.

“We’re glad to meet you too,” Tom said briskly. He glanced at the children, then at his own. They all seemed eager to get to know each other. “I understand that your house-elves were going to supervise the children?”

“Yes,” Fiske affirmed. “They set up a room with magical toys and interesting books… some Gobstones and wizard’s chess, in case yours play. And your cat! My sister’s boys don’t have a pet.” He directed the house-elf to lead the children away at once, to the satisfaction of everyone in the room. Tom was intensely curious about whatever the “dark and disturbing” story might be, especially since it concerned a Dark witch. Hermione wanted to know it as well. Fiske’s nephews were fascinated by the strangers and their part-kneazle cat, and Madeline and Virgil clearly wanted to get away from all the adults and spend time with other children instead.

* * *

Once the children—including the baby, now sound asleep in a crib—were all safely in the care of the elves, Mr. Fiske resumed his story. He opened the box again and withdrew the shiny items, of which there were two. One of them _was_ a knife, a sinister Baroque dagger. The other was a necklace that Hermione guessed was probably a ruby, but it was horribly damaged. The stone had been shattered from the center outward, looking rather like a piece of glass that had suffered a projectile impact. It also was darkened unevenly, as if it had been somehow burned.

“I must ask both of you to respect my family’s privacy on some details of this,” Fiske said as he laid the objects on the table next to the rest. “I don’t mind if you put in your museum that Cordelia practiced the Dark Arts, but… well… I am sure you can use your judgment.”

Hermione suddenly had a really bad feeling about this story.

Fiske set the dagger next to the damaged book. “First, you should know that she was very politically prominent in Colonial America. That in itself was like painting a target on her own back, because among the No-Majs in seventeenth-century Massachusetts, it just wasn’t done for women to be… forward… in society. Cordelia Orne was a civic leader. You won’t hear about it in No-Maj history, but she tried to get witches to lead the community, and that put her on the list. I don’t think she practiced the Dark Arts at that point, the late 1660s. But then she had to go into hiding, because the Scourers came after her. The No-Majs thought she had moved away, and basically said ‘good riddance,’ but the Scourers knew better.”

“The Scourers,” Tom said angrily, “were the vilest of blood-traitors. Selling fellow witches and wizards to magic-hating Muggles for bounty!”

“Yes, indeed, they were,” Fiske agreed.

“As you might know, Hermione and I had to handle something very much like that in the Soviet Union last year.”

“Yes,” Fiske said, shaking his head. “I’m very glad you took care of that quickly.” He continued with his narration. “In those days, there were two in particular who had their sights set on Cordelia. Both men, who, I am sorry to say, thought the No-Majs had the right of it about women—or just didn’t like a strong witch and pretended to agree with the No-Maj reason for it. Anyway, this is in her letters to her cousins, which are in that stack. We—the family—think that she only turned to Dark Magic after they killed her husband, the first Gregor Fiske.”

Hermione’s eyebrows shot up. It _was_ revolutionary that this woman had not taken her husband’s surname in the 1600s, even as a witch.

“All the indications are that he put up a fight,” Fiske continued. “She says in one of the letters that he wouldn’t let himself be taken alive. The book is something they took off him to offer to the No-Majs as evidence, but he cursed them and that’s supposedly their blood on it. They got him with the Killing Curse, though. And that was when Cordelia… turned.” Fiske looked quizzically at the Riddles. “This next part—this needs to be private,” he said.

“Of course,” Hermione assured him. “We have no desire to embarrass your family, even though no one should judge you for what someone long dead may have done.”

“It would provide aid and comfort to the pro-No-Maj viewpoint, though, I expect,” Fiske said, looking down. He cleared his throat. “All right. Well, after she was widowed, Cordelia decided to take her revenge on the Scourers. They had made off with her husband’s favorite book, too, and she didn’t like that either. So she went after them and caught one of them, the book thief, alone. I’m sure you can guess what she did to him… except that she used that very knife to finish the job.”

Tom leaned in, gazing hard at the destroyed ruby necklace. His eyes were wide. Hermione suddenly had a premonition of what was coming.

“Then… there is a certain Dark ritual,” Fiske said uncomfortably. He glanced at the necklace. “She wrote about it in one of the letters—which I also want to keep. She was very disturbed by the fact that her husband had been killed by the Killing Curse, and she vowed that it wouldn’t happen to her. What she did after killing that Scourer—it doesn’t nullify the Killing Curse, exactly, but it’s… not permanent anymore.”

Tom was suddenly looking very sick, his eyes huge and fixed on the necklace. He appeared unable to speak. Hermione was sure she knew how this was going to end too, and she felt for him—but at the same time, someone had to respond. Fiske might become suspicious himself if they didn’t.

She breathed deeply. “You’re referring to a Horcrux, I presume.”

Tom jerked at the word, still unable to take his gaze away from the ruined pendant.

Fiske, who fortunately had not noticed Tom’s movement, grimaced. “You know about it. Of course you do, both of you. Yes, that’s what that necklace was. I don’t mean to justify it, Mr. and Mrs. Riddle—but she meant to kill all the Scourers. She intended to join her husband, so according to her letter, her plan was to… undo it… after they were all dead. She expected that in itself would kill her. She just thought she needed to be protected against the Killing Curse temporarily, since the Scourers were wizards and witches—mostly wizards. That was her plan, and… if she had succeeded, history might’ve been very different. She would’ve been seen as a hero.”

Tom finally spoke. “I take it one of the filthy, despicable Scourers destroyed it instead,” he said, his voice like ice.

Fiske raised an eyebrow at Tom curiously. “Yes,” he continued. “She took out three more of them first, but the partner of the one whose throat she cut with that knife was on the scene when she slew one of them, and he saw her wearing it. Apparently when it was… active… there was a white gleam in the middle of it, and he guessed what it was.”

“And he killed her, too?”

Fiske nodded grimly. “She was there with her son. The final fight took place in a barn. The Scourer had summoned a group of No-Majs to reinforce him—just like those vile Russians did—but they got there earlier than he expected and saw him doing a spell. When they saw that he, too, was a wizard, they shot him dead. Cordelia’s son escaped, taking this with him. He fled to Boston, hiding behind safety of numbers… and the family has been here ever since.”

“I’m glad the Scourer was killed,” Hermione said. “And I see why you didn’t want the children to hear that.”

“It’s a grim history, Mrs. Riddle. My family does not come out looking so great.”

“I don’t know,” Tom said, his accent still clipped and icy. “I wish she had managed to kill all the Scourers as she intended.” His gaze flickered once more to the necklace, but as he did, the fury left, that sick expression came over his face once more, and he looked away immediately.

“Tom,” Hermione said quietly, putting her hand unobtrusively on his arm.

“Well, magical history would’ve been very different if she had,” Fiske agreed. “But I don’t pretend that her methods are something to boast of. Of course, these are people who are long dead… but those people in New York would see it as a reason to look down on my family, and the Boston area in general, even more than they already do. They think we’re all enamored of the Dark Arts. For your museum, you can say that Cordelia Orne sought to eliminate all the Scourers but they killed her first. The other bit… I’d rather not have that public.”

“Of course,” Hermione assured him at once. “I understand perfectly.” _More perfectly than you can imagine, Mr. Fiske._ “It will go no farther.”

* * *

Tom did not recover from the appalling story until they were almost ready to leave for their room at the inn. Fiske apparently attributed his shocked, upset demeanor to the disturbing nature of the tale, much to Hermione’s relief.

 _I suppose, though, that “he’s upset about it because he created one himself” would not be the first assumption anyone else would make about the British Minister for Magic,_ she thought as they gathered the children and the cat. She had summoned a pram out of her suitcase, and Cynthia was nestled safely into it, secured with stability charms.

“You’re staying at Boot’s Hotel?” Fiske asked. Hermione nodded. “It’s a fine place,” the wizard continued. “It’s located in the Back Bay neighborhood. This is Beacon Hill. It’s walkable, but I can show you a map if you want to Apparate directly there.”

They glanced quickly at the map he presented before meeting each other’s eyes and coming to the same conclusion. “It would be more fun to see the city,” Hermione suggested.

The children looked up eagerly. “Yes!” Virgil exclaimed. “I want to see the city.”

Fiske duplicated the map, then rolled up his copy and banished it. He handed the copy to Hermione. “Here you are, then. Now, you might want to put your cat in a carrier.”

Hermione promptly summoned one from her valise. The protesting animal was shoved into it, but he became quiet once they made their farewells and stepped outside into the sun.

Tom took a deep breath, glancing up at the scattered clouds and blinking. He seemed to be trying to gain command of himself. Hermione moved close to him and touched his arm gently.

He met her eyes. “That history,” he said in an undertone, “could not have been more upsetting to me if it had been personally crafted for me. That witch lost her spouse… her… _item…_ was destroyed by a blood-traitor… she failed at her goal of protecting magical people….”

Hermione squeezed his arm. It had not occurred to her that part of Tom’s nearly catatonic reaction had been over the fact that Cordelia Orne’s husband had been murdered. “It’s not going to happen to us,” she said. “Things are better now.”

He shivered once more, his motions incongruous with the bright sunlight, but then he took another deep breath. “You’re right,” he said in abrupt tones. “We have the Statute of Secrecy, and I’ve strengthened enforcement of it. There are specific new dangers in this time… but as we proved last year, we can handle them.” He reached for her hand and squeezed it.

They began the long walk toward the Back Bay. The children insisted upon walking around in the Common, to which their parents had no objection—as long as they could control magical outbursts. Madeline and Virgil solemnly promised that no such disaster would occur. Ignoring the occasional admiring glances—they were, Hermione realized, a rather handsome family—they entered the park and stood beside the pond as the children pointed out the wildlife.

“Did you bring it?” Hermione asked in a low voice while the older two children chattered.

Tom looked startled. “Well—yes.”

“Why? MACUSA probably would have found it if that search had continued.”

“We weren’t supposed to be put through that. And I wasn’t going to leave it at home. I would have worried. Especially after that story we heard….”

Hermione sighed in resignation. In her opinion, that story should have been a discouragement against the act at all, but it appeared that, typically, Tom was going to take an entirely different lesson from it.

The sun began to sink in the sky, and Tom and Hermione reluctantly had to pull the children away from the park and keep going. It was not a hardship. Although the sights along the path were all Muggle, they were still scenic and attractive. Even Tom found himself admiring the architecture of the most historic buildings, although he would not have admitted it freely.

They reached the part of Boston known as the Back Bay. “This,” Hermione remarked, gazing at the copy of Fiske’s map, “says that this neighborhood was created by filling in an existing bay. Interesting. We’re walking on manmade terrain.”

 _“Muggle-_ made terrain,” Tom groused under his breath. “I hope this hotel is _stable.”_

Hermione shook her head, not saying a word. He was still unsettled by the story of Cordelia Orne. He would be in a better mood once they were at the hotel.

As they approached the western end of the area, Hermione felt her magical senses prickling. There was magic somewhere not too far away. It was vague, but it was definitely magic. She supposed it must be because they were approaching Boot’s Hotel, the area’s only wizarding inn.

“You feel it too?” Tom asked, frowning.

She nodded. “It has to be the—but no, we’re off the path,” she said, gazing at the map. “We’ve gone too far to the west of the hotel and we’ll have to backtrack. This, whatever it is, comes from even farther west. I don’t think the hotel is the source. How odd.”

Tom reached into his inside coat pocket for his wand. He quickly cast a spell making the family unnoticeable to Muggles so that they could have a conversation in private. “It feels almost like… Felix Felicis in reverse,” he remarked, frowning thoughtfully.

“It does,” Hermione agreed. She glanced at Tom, suddenly alarmed for his state of mind. He was already upset about the story that Fiske had told them. If there was some sort of “unlucky curse” somewhere nearby….

He seemed all right, though, perhaps because he knew that this vague sense of looming misfortune was from an external source. “This definitely isn’t coming from the hotel,” he said after waving his wand. “We should investigate. Apparently no one with magic lives in this area or even comes here, or surely they would notice… and the hotel is too far east for the guests to detect it… but MACUSA needs to know about this.” He led the way as the family continued westward.

At last, following their magical senses, they left the main thoroughfares and entered a side street. A large stadium structure loomed to one side. It was unmistakably the source.

“I feel it now,” Madeline chimed in. She looked unhappy. “It makes me think something bad is going to happen.”

Virgil gazed balefully at the structure. “What is that?”

Hermione tried to think of what she knew about American Muggles, which admittedly was not a lot. “It’s some type of American Muggle sport facility,” she said.

“That is truly odd,” Tom said, gazing at Fenway Park in perplexity. “Why would a Dark curse be on _that?”_

* * *

They did not have time to consider the mystery. Madeline and Virgil were getting hungry and wanted to settle themselves in at the hotel, so the family turned back east to try to find it this time. Hermione did not stray from the map again, and before long, they found themselves in front of Boot’s Hotel, a converted pair of townhouses. The few Muggles who were walking around passed it by unseeing.

The charm that Tom had cast on them was still in effect, so he did not have to wait for the Muggles to leave the area before entering the building that was invisible to them. They climbed the steps and went inside—and instantly the children gave gasps of awe.

A beautiful magical lobby was before them. A glittering chandelier hung from the ceiling, and benign magical plants decorated the sides. A small colony of fairies hummed and buzzed around the plants. In one corner, an ornate sign with fancy letters flashed the greeting: _“Welcome to Boot’s Hotel of magical Boston!”_ Below that, a series of moving lines offered this description: _“Our hotel is named for the Boot brothers of Ilvermorny School! Did the historic artifacts in our famous ballroom belong to them? Debates occur nightly in the Lobby Lounge, sometimes featuring eminent academics from Ilvermorny and around the world.”_

Tom rolled his eyes at that. “It means that there have been drunk professors arguing over it at the bar,” he muttered to Hermione. “Pity we can’t get these objects and discover the truth, though I’m sure I know already what it is.”

Hermione did not choose to respond to his cynicism. It was difficult for her to tell right now how much of this was Tom’s parochialism, how much of it was still his reaction to that account from Fiske, and how much was simply his own tiredness. At home, they should be getting ready to go to sleep, and yet it was still light here. She felt a pang of guilt about dragging the children to the Muggle sporting field. They had not been able to identify the specific curse, and she was increasingly of the opinion that it was not any known named spell, but rather, a general wish of ill-will—a cloud of raw Dark magic.

The clerk gushed over the fact that the hotel was receiving the custom of such distinguished foreign guests, but Tom and Hermione cut that short. The children were grumbling at each other, hungry and sleepy. The cat was adding his own complaints to the mix. It was time for the day’s activities to end.

That night, Tom clutched Hermione under the covers as if his life depended on it, falling asleep that way. He had that _diary_ of his under his pillow, too. Hermione did not want to roll onto that pillow, but neither did she want to push him away. It was obvious that it was a response to the account he heard today. He probably would have wanted to hold the children too—and had, earlier, when they had sat on the sofa in their suite to hear their bedtime story.

 _As much as I wish he wouldn’t double down on dark things,_ Hermione thought, _I cannot fault him for wanting to hold us close. It’s a good thing._

* * *

Although they slept in, the family had a free day in which to further tour magical sites in New England. Fiske, with his nephews in tow, escorted them to see Ilvermorny School, as a crucially important magical site in the region. Although this was spring break, the school was still partially staffed, and those on the site were pleased to put together a little party for the Riddle children and Fiske’s nephews, one much like the cozy Christmas dinners at Hogwarts for the students who stayed there. The Riddle children were impressed but wise enough not to allow themselves to become too envious of the young American wizards they had met. Although their parents could send them abroad for their education, they still knew that they were going to attend their own country’s school in Scotland.

That evening, the dinner with Fiske that Madeline had so wanted to attend would be held in the ballroom at Boot’s Hotel—the one that boasted of having artifacts on display that the sons of the Ilvermorny founders had owned. President Parsons would also be present, as it was considered an official matter of state, and she would bring with her a few of her political subordinates. However, the dinner was still going to be small and private.

Tom and Hermione had had another strategy in mind for their sweeping tour of magical New England: exhaust the children so that they would not care as much about the evening event. After they had returned to the hotel, as they were preparing for the dinner, Hermione observed out the corner of one eye as her oldest child yawned.

“Why can’t I go?” Madeline pleaded, her voice changing pitch as she stifled a follow-up yawn in the middle of the question.

An amused smile formed on Hermione’s face, but it was Tom who answered first. “Because you need to rest. Listen to yourself.”

“I’m not that sleepy,” she protested, her voice modulating once more.

“You’re yawning,” Virgil chipped in. He knew that _he_ had no chance of going to the dinner, but it would be all right as long as his older sister didn’t go either.

“We’ve already discussed this,” Tom said. “You had loads of fun today with those boys, including a party of your own with them at the school they’ll be attending. This is the party for your mother and me… and yours was probably much more fun than this one will be.”

Madeline scowled, but she was unable to hide yet another yawn. Somewhat resigned, she took a book about Quidditch out of her suitcase, sat on the sofa, and tried to read it. The cat sat between her and her brother, his intelligent eyes flickering back and forth as if guarding them.

 _He’s part kneazle,_ Hermione thought, _so maybe he is._ Although Fiske had loaned one of his elves to sit the children—and tend to the baby—while Tom and Hermione were at the dinner, it was nice to know that the large cat would also be there.

At last they descended the stairs, arm in arm, and entered the ballroom. Hermione considered it. It was not at all Colonial-style… but then, the townhouses that encompassed this hotel were built at least a century later. She scanned a long cabinet along one wall, which was full of magical artifacts. The items did look old, and from the right era to have been the property of Ilvermorny’s founding family. It was possible. An idea passed through Hermione’s mind… but she quickly discarded it. Fiske’s ancestor’s possessions had a connection to the events leading to the International Statute of Secrecy. There was a justification for them to appear in a British museum. There was no such justification for these items, if their claimed provenance was true.

Fiske, Parsons, and a pair of people that Tom and Hermione did not know—presumably Parsons’ officials—were in the ballroom, which had been set with a single candlelit table in the center. The small, elite group sat down and soon began a regionally appropriate meal of fresh seafood and more chowder.

At the end of the main course, Violet Parsons leaned forward, a gleam in her eyes, and glanced at the Riddles. “So,” she began, “Gregor told you about what’s-her-name and is going to loan you some artifacts related to that.”

“Yes, his information was very useful, and of course we greatly appreciate his generosity,” Hermione said. She did not trust the look in this woman’s eyes. There was animus between Parsons and Fiske, real dislike rather than mere political rivalry, and she did not want to be caught in the middle of it.

Fiske did not appear to like being called by his given name by her. “My ancestor’s name was Cordelia Orne, _President Parsons,”_ he said pointedly.

Tom raised his eyebrow—evidently this was interesting to him too—but only Hermione saw.

“So what did you think about her?” Parsons pressed Hermione and Tom.

Tom clearly wanted to answer. _Don’t say anything stupid,_ Hermione willed him in thought. _Please don’t say anything foolish. Not here. She may not know all the details, but Fiske does, and he did observe your reactions during his hideous story._

“I think it’s a shame what happened to her,” Tom shot back at the MACUSA President.

“Oh, well, the Scourers were a menace, certainly,” Parsons agreed, “but vigilantism….”

“What other options did they have in those days, though? No real government existed. Everyone else was either hiding, running, or betraying their fellow wizards out of fear. At least she wanted to attack the problem itself.”

“Yes, wizarding anarchy was the source of the ill,” Parsons reluctantly agreed, her expression disappointed even as Fiske looked smug. “I hope that in your museum”—she turned to Hermione with a false smile—“you mention something about how vigilante justice such as hers was one contributing factor that gave rise to MACUSA.”

“I am sure there will be a mention of that,” Hermione said smoothly, “although the focus will necessarily be on the Statute of Secrecy.” She smiled a false smile of her own back.

The remainder of the meal was rather subdued, but no one at the table complained.

Late that night, when Tom and Hermione were back in their room in the privacy of their bedroom suite, she turned to him to ask him the question that had been bothering her all evening.

“What’s the issue between those two? Is it political?”

Tom stretched as he sat down on the bed. “Mostly political… and maybe ten percent this odd Boston-New York rivalry that they seem to have here. But I always thought that was more good-natured, so in their case, the politics soured it too. Fiske was their President before I became Minister. I wish I’d had the chance to work with him; it would have been a partnership to change our world globally. He tried to reform the Americans’ criminal justice system—which is about as bad as ours was—”

“Yes, I’m aware of that,” she said darkly.

“—and also attempted to loosen their excessive restrictions on issues like ‘wand licensing’ and so on, saying that their laws punished the magical community for things that _Muggles_ —though he used that ugly American term—did to _them_ long ago. MACUSA called for his head on a platter, politically speaking. And _she_ was leading that charge. Yes, there’s a lot of dislike.”

She considered that. It was about as she had suspected. “Well, I don’t want us to be mixed up in it.”

“Neither do I. I think we handled it well, though.”

* * *

The next morning was time to return home. Fiske had left the artifacts that he was willing to loan— _not,_ of course, the damaged ruby necklace or the dagger—and they had been clearly marked. Hermione did not really want to pass through MACUSA again to leave, but it was required.

The family Portkeyed to New York without incident, this time appearing correctly in the corridor for diplomatic guests. There were no petty tyrants waiting to spring on unsuspecting visitors _there,_ which was fortunate, because the baby did not like this any better than she had the first time.

Parsons appeared before them momentarily, just as Hermione had managed to hush her child. Her smile was obviously forced. Evidently she had realized that the British Minister was more sympathetic to her ousted predecessor’s views about wizard rights than to her own—not that that should have come as a surprise, given Tom’s political faction and agenda, but perhaps she had not paid close attention to overseas politics.

An official did have to examine the box of artifacts from Fiske to make sure that its contents were what they were declared to be on the attached parchment. While that was going on, Hermione remembered something else she wanted to mention to the President.

She shuffled through her leather folder. “When we were in Boston, we passed by this Muggle sport facility and detected a curse in the vicinity.” She held up a photograph of Fenway Park that she had taken.

Parsons raised an eyebrow skeptically. “On a No-Maj sports field? What curse was it?”

She hesitated. “I can’t put a name to it, but if you know how it feels to be under the influence of Felix Felicis, then imagine the opposite of that.”

“Well, Mrs. Riddle, I don’t know what you believed you felt there, but there is no recognized spell that does that.”

“A Dark curse relies heavily on intent, so it could come into existence if someone wanted it to do that. President Parsons, I’m certain that Tom and I detected something there. It wouldn’t hurt to send someone to look into it.”

“If you can’t identify a specific spell and didn’t see any _activity_ that’s potentially a result of magic, I’m not sure what to put in the report… and you should know, _that_ region has a history of the Dark Arts. It is very likely resonance from past activities, the very sort that caught the attention of No-Maj fanatics in the bad old days.”

The Riddles recognized that they were not going to get any further. As Parsons turned away, Hermione turned to Tom, frowning. “She’s not going to do anything about it.”

“It’s not our problem,” he said. “This mutual regional contempt is as bad as English versus Irish. Anyway, that curse is diffuse enough that the Muggles won’t sense it as magic. At least we got the artifacts. Now let’s leave this place.”

The entire family took hold of their Portkey and closed their eyes as it sent them home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a Red Sox fan, I decided to have some fun with their legendary “curse.” Babe Ruth famously “called” the location of a home run once, indicating some Divination ability in a Potterverse AU. He was never discovered as a wizard, because he channeled his magic so subtly through baseball that it wasn’t obvious even to him. He didn’t know that he truly did wandlessly curse his old team, but Dark magic relies heavily on intent, so it worked. And MACUSA is incompetent as always.


	28. The Museum of Magic, Part III:  Unearthed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Riddles take another family trip abroad, this time to Albania. After a thousand years, it’s time to bring Rowena Ravenclaw’s diadem home—and just in time for the museum’s grand opening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay with this, and I hope that the chapter sort of makes up for it. There are a lot of little references and allusions to various things in it.
> 
> Thanks to guest reviewer YZ for inspiring the idea at the beginning of this chapter. I didn’t choose to include this back story in the preceding chapter, because of various reasons: fairy-tale heroes and villains, Tom can’t boast of his Slytherin descent due to the Chamber of Secrets fiasco, and even my “moderate” Tom doesn’t approve of wizard-Muggle marriages. But if you’re unfamiliar with the Pottermore material about the founding of Ilvermorny, Tom is very distantly related to the founder.
> 
> Albania was a Soviet-aligned communist state at the time this story is set. Its government was particularly repressive, and I have extrapolated the likely implications of that for wizards. It’s not pretty.

Inside the newly refurbished museum building, Hermione studied the draft design that Tom had created. “The Wizarding World’s Darkest Hour: Persecution by Muggles, Betrayal by Wizards” was the caption for the museum exhibit, inscribed in a hand evocative of seventeenth-century writing. He had indicated where paragraphs of historical information should go, as well as where the pertinent artifacts would be displayed. Farther down the exhibit was a section specifically dedicated to Cordelia Orne. A silhouette of a witch with her wand out, poised for combat, would frame that section. Tom had written that it would be very clear that she practiced the Dark Arts and attempted to rid her community of the menace of the Scourers.

It was obvious to Hermione what Tom was trying to do. He wanted to paint the Dark Arts in a sympathetic light, and he definitely emphasized the persecution of magical people by Muggles over the acts of the Scourers. But these things had happened, and it was important to know about that era of history as it really had unfolded, rather than the false benign narrative that her own country’s leading historians promoted now.

The sound of approaching footsteps made her ears perk up. She glanced toward the door as he entered the room. He smirked when he saw what she was looking at.

“What do you think?” he asked.

She smiled faintly. “Your design is artistic and compelling. It should hold people’s attention and direct them naturally to the next part of the exhibit that they’re supposed to read or look at.”

“And the content? Such as it is so far.”

She thought for a moment about how to phrase her response. “It’s an accurate account. I mean… all right, Tom, I know that you’re particularly interested in these topics, and so you want to emphasize them… but I’m grateful that you have been measured in how you’ve phrased the material.”

“It was necessary to be measured,” he said evenly. “I want to change minds. There is too much ignorance about these things, but if I put it up as blatant propaganda, then the Weasley cohort would squeal about it. They’d say _we_ were the ones lying, and it would just harden people in their uninformed views.” He paused. “There is a time and a place for propaganda,” he added, a dark smile forming on his face, “but this isn’t it.”

Hermione rolled her eyes in exasperation, but affectionately.

* * *

The museum was progressing. The building’s interior still had the distinct look of unfinished work and ongoing construction, even though much of the work was magic. However, Hermione could tell now how it would look when the work was finished. Exhibits in various stages of completeness filled the building, showcasing documents and magical artifacts from the Middle Ages forward.

Dumbledore had really come through with the Room of Hidden Things. Most of the items in the room were ordinary magical objects, but they were still antiques, snapshots of everyday wizarding life in bygone eras. She had accepted the donation and had worked them into exhibits detailing this sort of magical history in Britain through the ages.

To Hermione’s surprise, the room had also turned out to hold a selection of unique medi-magical devices from Dilys Derwent’s time. They had probably belonged to her, as a Headmistress and a director of St. Mungo’s. Derwent probably had good reason to conceal them in the room, because they were clearly handmade prototypes—they were not all functioning properly—and even in their refined forms, looked very painful and torturous. Magical medicine had a history that was just as unpleasant as the history of Muggle medicine, after all.

One Saturday evening, Hermione found herself in Tom’s private office at home, gazing at his cabinet of artifacts. There was the Elder Wand, she noted. Near it was the locket of Slytherin. Hermione wished that he would see clear to loaning it to the museum, but she knew that was hopeless. He was far too possessive of his property to consider that.

Hermione’s gaze passed over the remainder of the objects, mostly curios and Dark curiosities of the same sort that she knew decorated the Black family home. Then something unusual—something she could not explain—caught her eye.

At first glance, it looked like another wand, but as Hermione studied it more closely, she realized that it was… a small tree branch. Why did he have a stick in his cabinet? Surely he meant to have it there, but what was its significance?

She tracked him down in the house to ask him about it. As she finished her question, that familiar smug smirk formed on his handsome face.

He draped an arm around her waist, still smirking. “I meant to tell you, but it always slipped my mind. It’s something I smuggled out of Wizarding New England.”

“I assume, then, that it’s more than meets the eye, or there is some special importance to it if it is just a branch.”

“It’s definitely important. It’s a branch from the tree that is thought to be the transformed wand of Slytherin.”

Hermione was aware that Tom was distantly related to the magical founder of Ilvermorny School, who shared common ancestry through the Slytherin line. He had not boasted of the connection, though, for a couple of reasons. For one, that witch had married a Muggle, and although Tom did not harbor prejudice for Muggle-borns—and even had a certain respect for their immediate relatives, due to their strain of wizarding ancestry—he still strongly disapproved of marriages with non-magicals who did _not_ have any known magical relatives. And secondly, although his Gaunt ancestry was public record, it was not widely known anymore that they were descended from Slytherin. Because of the Chamber of Secrets connection, Tom wanted to keep it that way.

Tom’s thoughts had been following this same trail as he explained the provenance of the branch to Hermione. However, he also had reasons _not_ to worry about the exposure of his ancestry, he reassured himself. The idea that the Chamber of Secrets had been opened was only a rumor among certain parts of the student body, and no one outside Tom’s own close circle credited it after Hagrid was expelled for harboring an Acromantula in the castle. And also, the one figure who could have blown that cover story—Moaning Myrtle—was out of the picture permanently. After the girl she haunted had complained to the Ministry, Tom had made sure that the ghost was persuaded to let go of her childish grudge and pass through the Veil in the Department of Mysteries. He suspected that one of the original purposes of the Veil had, in fact, been to allow ghosts to change their minds about lingering….

That was an uncomfortable line of thought for personal reasons that had nothing to do with the Chamber of Secrets, so Tom banished it. He forced himself to think about the tree branch and the Founders of Hogwarts. He had another plan concerning one of them, anyway.

“That reminds me,” he said.

His tone was a bit too overly conversational, too affected and casual, and Hermione noticed. Her eyebrows rose a bit.

He continued. “We need to take the Albania trip soon.”

“I hope we can narrow the search. Do you have an idea of what part of the country that Helena Ravenclaw might have left the diadem?” Hermione asked.

He nodded. “I got a lot of detail out of her when I asked, and I remember all of it.”

“That’s a relief,” Hermione said feelingly, meaning it. She had _not_ relished the idea of finding a proverbial needle in a haystack. “In that case, I’ll need to make the diplomatic inquiry, and I hope that the Albanian Minister is easy to work with…?” she ended questioningly.

Tom chuckled darkly. “Then I’m sorry to inform you that he’s something of a berk.”

Hermione groaned.

* * *

By the time they were ready to take the trip, Hermione had done her homework thoroughly. Muggle Albania was a totalitarian regime so brutal and repressive that it made Soviet Russia look like a democratic society. The other Soviet states were losing their leverage over the increasingly reclusive nation. Like all other wizarding governments in the Soviet bloc and other totalitarian Muggle states, the Albanians had imposed absolute secrecy. The Albanian wizarding leader, Aleksander Kona, was reluctant even to tell much to Tom—and Hermione did not want to seem reliant on Tom as a conduit of information this time, anyway. It was her project. She turned to her own resources.

To Hermione’s surprise, Volodymira Koroleva was still leading wizarding Ukraine despite the fiasco of the previous year on her watch. Had she been a Ukrainian wizarding citizen, Hermione would have wanted a change of leadership. However, that was not her problem, and it _did_ make it easier to have someone to correspond with whom she already knew. Although thinking of that mess still brought out painful, guilt-wracked memories, Hermione knew she needed to avail herself of any sources she could, unless she wanted to give the impression to the upper ranks of the Ministry that Tom was _actually_ the force behind her museum. Koroleva was glad to tell her what she wanted to know, at least.

Kona called himself the Albanian Minister for Magic, Koroleva reported to Hermione, even though his government was barely large enough to deserve the name.

 

 _I realize,_ Koroleva wrote, _that my own government must have seemed disastrously small and weak to a nation such as your United Kingdom, with its well-established wizarding state. However, Minister Kona’s government consists of little more than his own small circle of advisors and a small security team. He has the Trace on every known wizarding home, which seems excessive (even given the dangers of exposure in Albania) and far too much like the repression of the Muggles in his native country. I think he must have some form of surveillance on the non-magical population as well, because they do not appear to have a problem identifying wizards of non-magical parentage. I do not know his method, but it is probably similar to the means that we all employ._

 

Hermione placed this letter in her beaded purse, watching it vanish into the magically expanded depths. She had just reviewed it one last time before the Portkeys were set to activate, but it was not really that useful. Hermione could not decide whether this Aleksander Kona was a despot who was seizing on Muggle tyranny to impose much stricter surveillance and tougher laws than really necessary, or a patriot who was trying to protect his people from a grave threat. _I suppose I’ll have to form my own impressions of him to decide that,_ she thought. She hoped that he wasn’t—in Tom’s words—so much of a “berk” that she was unable to see past that to determine what sort of leader he was.

She glanced at her older children, who were clutching a Portkey and awaiting the moment it activated. Tom stood nearby. The whirling sensation began, and the family were pulled into darkness.

* * *

Hermione steadied herself, calmed Cynthia, and gazed out, taking in her new surroundings. They seemed to be… in someone’s house. It was a nice house— _Minister Kona’s?_ she wondered—but it was not a governmental installation, surely. Of course, according to Koroleva, Wizarding Albania would not have one of those.

She looked up as movement at the nearest door, the approach of a shadow, caught her eye. The person entered the room… and Hermione found herself looking upon the second-handsomest wizard she had ever seen. Her eyes widened for a fraction of a second before she instantly brought them back to a normal gaze. She hoped that this man hadn’t seen that reaction.

The wizard was relatively young, olive-complected, black-haired, and athletic. Other than the dark hair and eyes, it was a different kind of good looks than Tom’s. He did not appear to be wearing Muggle-style clothes at all, just traditional wizard robes. He smiled a toothy smile and shook the Riddles’ hands.

“I am Minister Aleksander Kona,” he said, still smiling. “You must be the Riddles. Welcome to Wizarding Albania, Minister.” He addressed himself only to Tom.

Hermione set him straight immediately. “We’re delighted to meet you, Minister Kona. As you know, we’re here to retrieve a magical artifact for the British National Museum of Magic. I am leading that project, though my husband is on the board of directors.”

Kona turned to her. “Yes,” he said briefly, “the letter did mention that… but I thought… ah, no matter.”

A surge of annoyance rose in Hermione. He had thought—what? That it was a façade? A legal dodge for Tom to sidestep suspicion and attacks for his motives in creating a history museum, perhaps? Or was it that a witch shouldn’t _really_ be in charge of anything?

She pasted a false smile on her face as she addressed the man. “Indeed, the museum was my idea, and my organization is administering it. We have strong evidence that an artifact from wizarding Britain was brought here many years ago and secreted away in a forest, never used again, certainly not in circulation. This is an item of highly significant historical value to Britain.”

Tom winced. Hermione noticed out of the corner of one eye, and she wondered why he had, but she continued. “We also think we know what part of the country it is in, so we will not disturb any of your people with a broad search.”

Kona smiled thinly. “Then it sounds as if you are eager to be on your way.”

“I didn’t mean—” Hermione began to say.

Kona waved his hand dismissively. “I am not offended, Mrs. Riddle. Obviously both of you have work awaiting you at home, and you want your trip here to be quick and efficient.” He gestured ahead, out of the room they stood in. “Let me see you out.”

As they followed him out, they passed several rooms, all of which were decorated very lavishly. There was so much heavy, gold-and-dark ornamentation that the rooms were almost claustrophobic, just like the one that the Portkeys had taken them to.

“Is this your family home?” Hermione asked mildly.

Kona looked almost embarrassed as he answered. “I’m afraid it isn’t. I was not born to wealth. I purchased and decorated it in my own lifetime.”

 _Then you’ve done extremely well from something,_ she thought. What could be so lucrative in this country?

They passed by the kitchen, and movement inside caught her eye. She paused and watched for a moment as a human child moved about the kitchen, putting cookware and dishes in the cupboards. The boy’s face looked blank and expressionless.

Kona noticed that she had stopped. “I apologize,” he said, with a dark look at the child that Hermione did not care for. “That door was not supposed to be open.”

“I didn’t realize you had children,” Tom said, his voice a bit too mild. Hermione glanced at him. She recognized that tone.

“He is not mine,” Kona said at once, closing the kitchen door and trying to hurry the Riddles out. “I have pages who are learning about magic and governance from me.”

That was odd to Tom and Hermione, but they did not comment. _Perhaps it’s simply that a different country does things differently,_ she thought. _Having pages is an archaic practice, but perhaps it never went out of favor here._

Tom apparently had a different opinion. He regarded Kona with suspicion. “Do they not go to one of the schools, like Durmstrang?”

“Not Mudbloods.”

Madeline and Virgil gasped in shock.

“That term is a slur in Britain,” Hermione said tautly, irritated that her children had heard it, and from a powerful wizard at that.

“Then I apologize,” Kona said. “It is not offensive here, at least not in our own language. But it’s the truth, Mrs. Riddle,” he added quickly, seeing her visage turn stormy at his justifications in front of her children. “These children are… Muggle-born. Obviously, they cannot stay in the Muggle world in this country.”

“Of course not,” Tom agreed. “Witches and wizards should never live as Muggles. But that boy was doing your housework.”

“Pages do chores,” Kona said. “It is how it has always been.” He moved forward. “Let’s continue.”

At last the family stepped out of the house into sunlight—or they would have if it had not been an overcast day. Hermione turned to Tom, who would know in what part of the forest they should begin their search. They linked hands with each other, and the two older children attached themselves to their parents’ clothing. As one, they Apparated.

* * *

They landed in a clearing of a forest. The fresh scent of woods filled their nostrils, and Hermione took a deep breath of the fragrant air.

Tom, rarely sentimental, was already examining the site with his wand in the air, casting broad-area magic detection spells.

“How close do you think we are?” Hermione asked.

He lowered his wand arm, evidently disappointed with the results. “I’m not detecting anything here,” he admitted.

“Nothing at all?”

He grimaced, unwilling to acknowledge it verbally. “And I don’t know what direction to walk.”

Hermione thought about it. That was a problem. They had even odds of walking _away_ from the diadem if they just chose randomly… but without even a hint of magic as a compass, what choice was there?

Virgil spoke up. “When you don’t know where to go, you can use a map,” he supplied. “Do we have one?”

Tom and Hermione started to shake their heads, but as they regarded their son, they stopped abruptly. The same idea had entered their heads.

“If there’s no magic in this area, it won’t be Unplottable,” Hermione said, speaking quickly.

“The diadem itself probably will be,” Tom said, “but we can at least see where we’ve been and where we’re going. And if the Grey Lady was right—and wasn’t lying to me—we _are_ within walking distance of it.”

Hermione withdrew a sheet of parchment from her supplies. At once she and Tom began casting the charms on the sheet that would turn it into a magical map. They could not use the magic as a shortcut to the diadem, to map places—or items—that they had not seen themselves, but the map would expand and update whenever they came to a new place. It would also track their footsteps. With this map, not only would they not get lost, but they also would avoid going in circles or inadvertently heading in an unprofitable direction.

“That was a good idea,” Hermione said to Virgil. He smiled happily as they began to walk through the woods.

 _Thank goodness for magic,_ Hermione thought in a bit. Obviously, it was not possible—or safe—to take a baby down rugged terrain in a pram. However, there were some subtle little spells on Hermione’s baby sling that carried much of the child’s weight so that Hermione’s own muscles did not have to. This walk would have been debilitating otherwise, and she would have been unable to help Tom with the wand-waving and spellcasting to detect signs of magic.

They had to turn around once, as Hermione had feared. Nothing was showing up, and by that point, something should have if they had been going in the right direction. They doubled back and headed in the direction from which they had just come, but at least they knew that they were getting closer to the diadem now.

Sure enough, after what felt like hours of walking—though she knew it wasn’t quite—the magic-detection spells that she and Tom were casting lit up the tips of their wands like vivid purple lights.

 _“That’s_ better,” he said smugly, taking the map from Madeline and making a mark on it.

They continued, making a slight northward detour when the purple lights dimmed a bit. The magic-detection spells served as a magnetic compass for them, pointing them exactly where they needed to go… or so Hermione hoped.

“I hope we’re following the trail of the diadem,” she remarked in a low voice to Tom, “and not some other source of magic.”

“What other source could there be in the middle of the woods?”

“I don’t know… and neither do you,” she added pointedly. He fell silent, but they continued to walk in the direction the wands pointed them.

At last, however, something new appeared on the map: a structure. Hermione drew her breath. Tom would _not_ like this. He had wanted them to be alone digging up treasure….

The building came into view as they approached. It was a small stone cottage, perhaps no larger than a single room. Set in a clearing, the house and its immediate yard had just enough sunlight that a vegetable and herb garden could grow, as they observed. There was also a goat behind a simple fence. Apparently the occupants got their sustenance from the garden, the goat’s milk, and presumably from hunting in the woods.

Tom’s face was curdling with irritation and contempt. They were _very_ close to the source. _Are we really going to have to deal with Albanian peasants to get it?_ he thought in deep frustration. _Well, I suppose at least they’re simple-minded forest-dwelling Muggles. It could be worse._

Hermione remembered what Volodymira Koroleva had told her. If her information was correct, Minister Kona might well have the Muggle population monitored in some way. She had told Tom about that, but if he didn’t remember in time, he might use the Imperius Curse on these people to get past them. It would not be good if Kona detected him doing that. For all of Tom’s dealings with Grindelwald and Grindelwald’s discovery in Russia of Tom’s darkest secret, they _had_ made sure, via the Fidelius Charm and the Unbreakable Vow, that Grindelwald could not blackmail Tom.

A young child’s high-pitched cry of fear pierced the air. The Riddles halted in their tracks as a very pretty little girl darted toward the stone cottage from the nearby thicket. Hermione turned to look at the spot the child had been hiding and gasped. It was ablaze.

“Do you think she’s—” Tom began to say, but his words were drowned out at once by the sounds of a woman inside the cottage shouting in dismay and terror in her own language. Tom immediately cast the translation spell so that they could understand what the people were saying.

“Ana! You have set the trees afire again!” the woman screeched. “I have no water drawn except for our dinner!”

The child cried. “People were coming for me! I couldn’t help it. I was scared!”

“People are coming?” The woman’s face appeared in the window of the cottage. The Riddles were standing very openly in the clearing, not attempting to hide. The peasant woman turned pale with fear, and her face disappeared from their sight as she fled from the window.

As Tom cast Aguamenti to extinguish the blaze, Hermione put up a powerful magic shield protecting her children. The woman was probably non-magical, since she felt that she had to put out the fire with a bucket of water, but she still might have Muggle weapons. And the little girl was….

The peasant woman emerged from the door, attempting—and failing—to put on a brave face. “Welcome,” she said in shaky tones, through the translation charm. She glanced uneasily at Tom and Hermione’s wands. Then she noticed Madeline, Virgil, and Cynthia, and the fear turned to sheer terror. “Please, I beg you, do not take Ana. She does not mean to set the fires.”

Tom was staring at the peasant woman with a very peculiar, puzzled, thoughtful look on his face. Hermione could not fathom why—the woman was non-magical and wasn’t even attractive—but for whatever reason, he was not fully himself right now. She cast a second translation charm, so that this woman could understand what she was saying as well.

“We are not here for your child,” Hermione said clearly. “We did not mean to disturb your family at all. We’re from Great Britain, and we’re looking for something in this area—an object.”

The little girl peeked around the woman’s skirts. She had spoken like a five- or six-year-old, but she was diminutive and thin. She looked at Madeline and Virgil with a frightened gaze.

“Oh, please,” the woman begged. “This is all that we have, what is in this house—”

“I don’t think that what we’re searching for is in your house,” Hermione said. She glanced at the child. “But why were you afraid that we were going to take your daughter?”

The woman did not want to answer. She hesitated, staring at Tom, clearly intimidated by the people before her.

“Can your daughter do magic?” Tom finally spoke up, though the thoughtful puzzlement did not fully leave his face. “Is that it? She can, can’t she? That’s how she set the fires.”

The woman shivered. “I see I cannot deceive you about this,” she mumbled. “Yes, Ana is like her brother—and they took him away for it.” She gazed fearfully at the Riddles. “These children—they are yours? You truly are not here at Kona’s request?”

 _Kona’s request?_ Hermione thought. Suddenly she thought about the boy in Kona’s kitchen, the blank stare on the child’s face.

Tom seemed to be remembering the same thing, as indignation appeared rapidly on his face. “Yes, they are ours. Is your Minister Kona sending people to steal magical children?” he asked, his voice rising.

The woman seemed more willing to talk, now that it was apparent to her that her visitors disapproved of the idea of taking her child. “My husband, who is now dead, had a son with his first wife, and they came for him—people in fine robes, with wands. They said that Aleksander Kona, the Minister for Magic, had sent them. We pleaded for them not to, but they killed my dear husband when he tried to stop them. They would have taken Ana too if they had known… but it was two years ago, and she did not do magic until four months ago.”

“Could your husband do magic?” Tom asked.

The woman shook her head. “He could not, but we knew a little of such things anyway. He was my second cousin, and his first wife was my first cousin, and we had all heard that there used to be magic in the family a long time ago. He told me that Kona was turning the children into elves.”

 _Turning them into elves?_ Hermione thought. The boy she had seen was definitely human. But… he _did_ have that blank face. Was Kona putting the children under Imperius? These peasants, with their knowledge of magic distorted and diminished by time, could have some vague oral history that witches and wizards could turn people into something else, and that house-elves were enslaved, and therefore that any sort of enslavement must mean being turned into an elf.

What to do about it, though? They were here to find the diadem of Ravenclaw. They _could_ remove Kona from power, but someone would have to take his place, and they did not know enough about the political leadership of this country to determine a good choice. Still… if Kona and his cronies were stealing children of non-magical parents and using them for slave labor, that had to be stopped somehow.

“That is despicable,” Hermione said to the woman. “We do, unfortunately, have to meet with Kona before we leave the country—but we will not betray your daughter to him,” she added as the woman became fearful again. “What we _will_ do is try to make him stop this, and try to get Ana’s brother back. If he doesn’t want to cooperate, there are….” She hesitated about how to word this so that these people would grasp the concept of the International Confederation of Wizards. “There are magic police who can even arrest national leaders if they do wrong,” she finally said. “We’ll report him to them if he doesn’t stop this.”

The woman looked relieved. “Thank you very much,” she said. Ana emerged at last from behind her mother’s skirts and stepped toward the Riddle children. Wordlessly she smiled at them before losing her nerve and darting away again. Virgil was bewildered, but Madeline bore a knowing look on her face. She was clearly old enough to understand the situation—and feel confident due to her age and superior life experience.

Hermione addressed the woman again. “Now, with that settled, I would like to ask you—since you have some magical ancestry yourself, you might be able to feel it. We were using spells to try to locate the object we’re searching for, but we might have been detecting your daughter’s magical ability instead. Do you know of any locations that feel… different?”

The woman shook her head, but the child’s face appeared once again. “I do,” she said shyly. “The hard stump by the spring. I go there when I forget something. I always remember then.”

Tom was paying close attention. “Hard stump? Petrified, you mean?”

The girl and her mother apparently did not know what that meant. “The spring water is very nice near the stump,” the peasant woman said, trying to be helpful.

Tom was convinced. “That’ll be it. Thank you for your assistance.”

With that, they left the cottage. Hermione’s head was whirling with a variety of feelings—indignation, disgust, pity, but also moral righteousness and excitement. Here was an opportunity to set another wrong right. Kona would put an end to this practice, or he would suffer the wrath of the international wizarding community.

But at the same time… that child used the stump—which, Hermione agreed with Tom, almost certainly concealed the diadem—to help her memory. It might even enhance her magic a bit. And they were going to take that away, from a child who had little enough as it was.

She expressed this concern to Tom as they approached the sounds of bubbling water. “The little girl might suffer if we take the diadem,” she said in a low voice. “She’s clearly benefiting from it, even without wearing it.”

“The diadem belongs to Britain, and that child should get a magical education instead of relying on a concealed artifact and what little oral tradition her mother can tell her,” Tom said firmly.

Hermione glanced at Madeline, Virgil, and—in her sling—Cynthia. _My children will receive the best magical education that the world has to offer,_ she thought with a pang. _They will have everything in life that they could want, because of who Tom and I are. That little girl… she is a witch, but will she be taught at all? Durmstrang won’t accept her due to her parentage, and they don’t speak her language at Beauxbatons. Where can she go?_ The idea made her feel bad. She would have to consider what else she might do.

Something else occurred to her, perhaps due to the proximity of the diadem and the effect it apparently had on memory. “Tom, what were you thinking when you were looking at the woman so thoughtfully?” she asked.

He frowned. “I had the oddest feeling of déjà vu when I saw her, like I knew her but couldn’t place her. But I couldn’t have, of course. I’m not sure what it was. Maybe someone at home looks like her.”

Hermione pondered that. Suddenly a very unpleasant idea entered her mind. The cottage was apparently very close to the diadem, its inhabitants the only humans anywhere in the vicinity. _Or maybe, in another life, you would have—_ She shoved the idea out of her mind at once, not wanting to complete that dark thought.

The aforementioned spring was finally before them, bubbling cheerfully. Hermione gazed down the bank in both directions.

Stumps, fallen trees, and piles of decaying wood dotted the water’s edge. She cast the magic-detection spell, which made her wand tip flash extremely bright purple. They were very, very close, but they knew that already. With Madeline next to her, Hermione walked down the bank to the right, keeping her wand aloft and watching the light to see if it dimmed or grew brighter.

It did not change in a detectable way.

Tom was going down the left side with Virgil in tow. His wand was also aloft, and it was not changing in intensity either. Evidently the spell was not precise enough, or the human eye was not good enough, for it to be useful at such close range. But still, there were dozens of trees and stumps, most of which looked very old indeed. Now what?

“Are you sure?”

Madeline and Hermione whipped their heads around. Tom was standing next to Virgil, who had selected one old, hardened lump of long-dead tree seemingly at random and was examining the ground nearby. It was barely a stump at all, but instead looked like a tree that had collapsed on itself and hardened over time.

The little boy looked up at his father. “I want to try this one first,” he said stubbornly.

“What is different about this one?” Tom inquired, brandishing his wand. Hermione and Madeline shared a glance and turned around to walk toward the males of the family.

Virgil bit his lip. “I don’t know. It’s just different.”

“I can’t feel anything different about it,” Tom said. “But”—he added at once, seeing Virgil’s face fall—“that doesn’t mean you’re wrong. I’m just curious about what seems different to you.”

Virgil looked frustrated at being unable to articulate what it was. “I don’t know,” he said.

Tom decided not to press it. He extended his wand over the stump and brought it down in an arc, splitting the remnant of the tree—now hardened, almost petrified, from centuries of weathering—into several pieces. He began sifting through the debris.

Hermione’s heart pounded rapidly, and she quickened her pace, arriving at the spot just as Tom lifted a tarnished silver tiara out of the pile.

Virgil beamed, clapped, and jumped excitedly. “I knew it! I knew it!” he exulted.

Tom’s gaze shifted from the diadem to his son. A peculiar look came over his face again, a look of resistance and dismay at first, but then it changed subtly to an expression of acceptance and peace, as if something he had long known on some level was now essentially confirmed to him.

* * *

Before returning to Kona’s house, Tom and Hermione went to the stone cottage and cast a protective spell over it. It was not perfect, but it was probably sufficient. It was the one that would render anything inside it invisible to outsiders, even wizards. That way, if Kona or his cronies sent goons to abduct Ana, they would not be able to find her. Still, Hermione hoped to achieve a more permanent solution.

She stashed the diadem in her beaded bag, marveling at the fact that—unlike the time she had bought the locket of Slytherin for him—nothing about this troubled her. Perhaps it was that in her old life, she had never worn the diadem, never had it in her possession for months on end. Perhaps it was also the passage of time. Perhaps it was that, now, her mind was already associating the item with Virgil instead of with Tom. She smiled to herself about what that likely implied. Tom had seemed all right with it after the initial surprise, and he had even promised their son that he would receive primary credit for the find in the official museum record—shared, but Virgil’s name would be first on the listing. In any case, it did not bother her to handle the tiara.

The family linked arms and Apparated out of the forest, back to the front entrance of Aleksander Kona’s obscenely ornate house.

The wizard was surprised at their return so soon, but he greeted them at the door and welcomed them into his house once more. Hermione had decided to confront him with knowledge of the kidnapping ring immediately.

However, Kona had other ideas. He smiled—his smile now seemed sleazy and sinister to Hermione—and spoke first.

“Might I have a look at the artifact that you found?” he asked in a seemingly mild tone.

Tom stiffened. Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. “Is there any particular reason?” she asked.

Kona looked affronted. “I merely would like the chance to see it before it leaves my country forever,” he said, attempting to put melancholy into his words, but not quite succeeding.

Hermione stared levelly at him. He had some ulterior motive. There was no question of that. Tom was giving him black looks indeed, so he might even have used Legilimency on the man to determine what those motives were. But even though she did not know what Tom had discovered, Hermione was quite intelligent enough—and, she thought briefly, the diadem might be helping—to realize that whatever it was that Kona wanted, she could extort and intimidate him out of it by revealing her knowledge of the child abductions. She opened her beaded bag, waved her wand, and drew the diadem out of it.

Kona’s eyes gleamed. “You said it was important to your country’s magical history,” he observed. “It is clear that it is valuable in its own right too. Well,” he continued, a slick smile forming on his face once more, “in that case, I’m afraid that this significantly raises the, ah, ‘export fee.’ And based on where you found it, you’ll need to pay the… _fee…_ to my head of security.”

Hermione and Tom tensed. The older children looked uneasily at their parents, well aware of what this sort of body language foreshadowed. They had not wanted to bring the children into Kona’s parlor to hear this, but they certainly were not going to entrust them to this man, and in any case, they had already heard some details from the peasant woman.

She leaned forward aggressively. “No, Minister Kona, I don’t think so. This artifact was never supposed to be in your country in the first place. It was stolen and brought here in secret, and it has never been part of wizarding education or commerce here.”

Kona regarded her with a challenge on his face. “This is the policy of this country, Mrs. Riddle. I am the Minister of Albania. I oversee _all_ wizarding matters here, and anyone who is served or otherwise benefits from any wizarding person, or anything of a magical nature, must pay me or one of my officials.”

Hermione glared around the room they were seated in. “So that’s how you have made the fortune to pay for this house, I presume—extorting wizards!” she snapped. “You and your cronies, probably bleeding the magical population dry! They are impoverished, while you and your ‘officials’ live in luxury. The very caricature of a corrupt oligarch with a two-bit government!”

Tom drew his wand and turned it around between his fingers menacingly. “That, and the money that you undoubtedly bring in from your trafficking of children for slave labor.”

That visibly startled Kona, but he attempted to recover. “I do not know with whom you have been speaking, Minister Riddle, but that is… what is the term? Propaganda.”

“Your ‘security team’ abducts children from non-magical families and does something to them—the Imperius Curse, or something—to make them compliant,” Hermione snarled. “Do you deny it?”

Kona shrugged. “It is not the Imperius Curse. Nothing so crude as that. They live as house-elves, Mrs. Riddle. We have determined how to apply the _geas_ that controls house-elves to human children. It involves a potion made with a drop of blood from an elf… but what would you have me do?” he continued, seeing how visibly angry this was making her. “Do you know how I came to power, Mrs. Riddle?”

“I can guess.”

“No, I doubt you can. When the Muggle dictator assumed power thirteen years ago, we wizards had to scramble to protect ourselves. We had to impose absolute secrecy, but there was the problem of those children you speak of. They continued to be born, and their existence threatened _our_ existence, with the Muggles in power being what they were. My opponent wanted to kill them as infants. My advisors and I came up with this alternative.”

“And how _convenient_ that it gave you a source of obedient slaves that you didn’t even have to educate, and could sell to others for an exorbitant amount,” Hermione snapped. “We have devised a better answer in Britain, you know. We bring the whole family into the wizarding world, which is good for our population growth too. If the parents are hostile, we use magic to change their minds. They get to remain a family. Ever think of _that_ solution? Do you even know what becomes of the children that you and your ‘advisors’ don’t take?”

Kona shrugged again. “They are shipped out of the country. It is not our concern.”

Hermione shook her head, staring at him in disgusted wonder. “You really don’t care,” she said. “Well, Minister Kona, I’m afraid that the I.C.W. _will_ care, unfortunately for you and your cronies.”

“The I.C.W. did not act on the incidents in Russia,” Kona said airily.

“We didn’t bring it to their attention,” Tom spoke up. “I am a member of the I.C.W., and I guarantee you that they will listen to a report from the British Minister for Magic. I strongly advise you to drop this demand that we pay off one of your cronies to take a magical artifact that has always been British property. I also recommend that, if you want the I.C.W. to go light on you, you turn over all the magical children in your custody and release them to their families, or to the European alliance’s refugee relocation program if they no longer have family.”

Kona glanced around the room, anxiety spreading over his face as he realized that Tom and Hermione were deadly serious.

“Wizarding governments in the other Soviet republics have agreements with the alliance to relocate families who want to leave or are in danger,” Hermione said evenly. “You never had to engage slavers. My husband is correct—you’d better give it up if you want to stay out of Azkaban.”

Kona swallowed hard. “Well,” he said, his voice noticeably weaker and more subdued, “perhaps we can come to an agreement.”

“I’m sure we can,” Tom said, his words menacing.

* * *

The boy in Kona’s kitchen was not, as the Riddles had hoped, the little girl Ana’s half-brother. He was an orphan who, once his free will was restored, claimed to have adult cousins in Greece. That would be looked into, but in the meantime, he and the other children that the Albanian Minister and his corrupt “friends” had in their service would be turned over and held by their allies in the East. The British-European alliance of free wizarding governments would attempt to track down the children who had been shipped out by private human traffickers.

In the meantime, Hermione and Tom made a stop in Paris on the way back home and quietly told the magical authorities there about the little witch in the Albanian forest. They had concluded that going to Beauxbatons was her best option, and that she was still young enough to learn French easily if someone started to teach her soon. She could be ready to go to the wizarding school by the time she was old enough.

Finally, they were ready to go home. Hermione glanced at her own children, sorrowful that they had been exposed to something this sordid and frightening. Madeline especially looked graver than she had before the trip. She, at least, was fully old enough to comprehend what had been taking place. Virgil, it appeared, was still mostly distracted by the joy of discovering a powerful magical artifact.

“I hope that he can be forced out of power and a real government instituted there,” Hermione muttered to Tom as they prepared to Apparate back to London.

He sighed. “I do too… but we can’t force it.”

“No, we can’t. But at least the alliance and the I.C.W. know to watch closely. His power is crippled now, even if he retains the title.”

He nodded. “There is that. Now let’s go home. Every time I go abroad, I am reminded of how easy we have it even when the _Daily Prophet_ is attacking us viciously. I’m eager to be back in wizarding Britain… and it’s time for _this”_ —he touched the beaded bag, which held the relic of a Hogwarts founder—“to return home as well.”

They held hands and Apparated away.


	29. The Law of Unintended Consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Wizarding Renaissance is doing what Minister Riddle meant it to, but there are some hideous and unexpected side effects. Unexpected to him, at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo… this chapter isn’t really about what's in the summary. I meant it to be, but additional subplots worked their way in. Tom and Hermione do have kind of the same problem, but the chapter is about several issues. This was almost painful to write, and I should warn that for the first part of it, it depicts negative effects of overwork and stress, including marital estrangement. BUT... there is an M-rated conclusion.

_1960._

Tom crumpled today’s edition of the _Daily Prophet_ and tossed it into the fire in his opulent Ministry office. The edges of the paper caught fire and glowed orange briefly before turning black and crumbling to soot, as the flames consumed them. Tom rubbed his temples. A headache was coming on, brought about not by a lead headline, but by a small article in the “Crime and Unusual Events” section that told of another suspected “Knockturn Alley healer.”

That was the term. They were not usually actual healers, and they did not necessarily operate in Knockturn Alley, but that was the vernacular for the shady characters who attempted to practice Healing, of a sort, but all too frequently butchered patients with Dark curses.

What they did was not usually even illegal, as long as the people who put themselves in their power did so freely and the Dark practitioners did not misrepresent their practice as standard, licensed-and-approved Healing. _It would have been illegal a few years ago,_ Tom thought with an eye for the irony of it despite his dismay. There was increased tolerance of the Dark Arts since the National Museum had opened and he, the Minister himself, had acknowledged being a Dark wizard. He had seized on the public mood change to loosen a restriction on the Dark Arts that—in his view—had stifled experimentation and prevented magical advancement from being made. Under his new law, when adults consented to the use of specific Dark magic on themselves, with the risks acknowledged, and said magic was not already proscribed by law—such as the Unforgivable Curses—then the person who did it could not be charged with a crime if injury resulted. In Tom’s opinion, this was the most basic kind of restriction to be lifted, the low-hanging fruit. He meant to do more in time.

But he had a problem. Lately it seemed that there were a lot more “Knockturn Alley healers” than there had been even a few years ago… and Tom could not avoid the conclusion that his change in Dark Arts law had something to do with it. He was also quite sure that his Wizarding Renaissance law was the other big factor contributing to the situation, because of the specific type of Dark magic that these… entrepreneurs… were attempting to perform. Taken together, these were very uncomfortable facts to face.

In the most recent incident, a witch had been admitted to the emergency ward of St. Mungo’s with severe internal injuries. She had almost died, and she _had_ lost the function of her reproductive system. Healers had confirmed that the curse the “healer” had inflicted to terminate her pregnancy had, in fact, caused severe irreparable damage to the affected organs. This was not the first such case. There had been five this year already.

Why did this have to start happening _now?_ After a tumultuous start, he was finally secure in his seat as Minister for Magic. The public works that he and Hermione had created, especially the National Museum and Hogsmeade Park, drew scores of visitors and strong support from the people. He was considered one of the most important leaders of the modern international wizarding order for his efforts to protect the Statute of Secrecy in totalitarian Muggle states. His faction, his party, was the only one of the three that had strong and serious leadership anymore. Albus Dumbledore could have been a strong opponent, but he had chosen to cultivate a profile of being above the fray and willing to work with any reasonable Minister instead of openly declaring himself a partisan of the Reformist faction. They were stuck with Septimus Weasley and a few other weak functionaries, none of whom had the charisma to seize the leadership mantle, and the disgracing of Abraxas Malfoy last year had left the Isolationists in a similar situation. Tom had the Wizengamot where he wanted it: a solid majority supporting his tenure, between his Wizarding Nationalists’ forty-two percent and some crossovers from the other two factions.

Most of Tom’s domestic policies had popular support too, and even the Renaissance Law itself—though still controversial, and easily the least popular of his laws—was beginning to bear fruit. He had his Social Welfare office tracking statistics very closely, and there was immediately a small but detectable rise in the wizarding birth rate since he had curtailed private imports of the silphium plant. _It’s doing what I meant it to do._ Why did _this_ have to happen? It wasn’t supposed to. He hadn’t wanted _this._

 _And more importantly,_ Tom thought, _what can I do about it? The press isn’t nagging me about it yet, but if I don’t do something to address the problem early, it’s inevitable that they will. And after the nagging, then the blame to my policies—and a new round of attacks._

* * *

Hermione still had trouble figuring out Tom sometimes. He was a complicated person: a Dark wizard, magic supremacist, silver-tongued politician, but a devoted family man. He had positioned himself—sincerely, Hermione believed—as a champion of wizarding children specifically, while not actually being able to relate to children other than his own. He was a ruthless ideologue who had grand ideas for the greater good, but he cared little for most people individually except his own family. But _how_ he cared about his family!

She had long known what _she_ meant to him, and it had been clear for years that he felt the same devotion to their children, but some aspects of their family life still surprised her when she took the time to ponder them. In 1945, when she had first committed herself to being with him, she had not thought he would make a good father. She had believed that he would pressure his children to use Dark magic and would not approve of their interests unless he personally shared them. That second fear, at least, had turned out to be unfounded. He supported Madeline’s interest in Quidditch, and he had made peace with Virgil’s quietly imaginative personality and apparent “selection” by the diadem of Ravenclaw—though she had a feeling he was still hoping the Sorting Hat disagreed in several years. And now, two-year-old Cynthia—who was _definitely_ a Parselmouth like her siblings; she had made hissing sounds before she even spoke English words—was obsessed with magical plants and creatures. Although she could not read, her favorite book was the illustrated edition of Newt Scamander’s famous text. She loved to look at the pictures. Tom was not overly interested in Herbology or Magizoology except for snake lore and organisms as sources of potions ingredients; his favorite types of magic involved what Severus Snape had once called “foolish wand-waving,” but he was happy to provide his youngest child with picture books and charmed miniature models of creatures.

Hermione was grateful that Tom often took the lead in the evenings to read to the children and get them ready for bed. He had done so this evening, specifically wanting the temporary distraction of being with them after apparently getting some sort of report at the Ministry that he didn’t like. She was glad he had taken the initiative today, she thought, taking a sip of wine that evening to calm her nerves. There were days, like today, when she just needed the time to herself. Lately it felt that she was being stretched to the limit. Being president of her organization and chair of the National Museum’s board of directors left her feeling hollowed out and exhausted, but she did not want to turn either entity over to someone else. They were _hers._ She could handle both. The organization was running smoothly, its in-house research, external grants, and policy analysis divisions doing what they were supposed to do. And the Museum of Magic was as popular as it had been the previous year. Didn’t success prove that she was handling things?

Still, she had been growing concerned that her family and marital life would suffer first, in fact that the latter already had in one regard. It _was_ Tom’s job to take care of the children sometimes, and she was not yet delegating an unfair proportion of parenting duties to him… but lately, most nights, she had been falling asleep with barely a good night kiss for him, let alone more. She was just too tired for intimacies, but that was not a situation that she should allow to become normal….

She finished her glass of wine and glanced at the clock. A frown passed over her face. It was eleven o’clock; the children should be in bed now—the younger ones, anyway. If Madeline wanted to sit up late, she was old enough to use her own judgment, but she was to keep to her bedroom and the bathroom if she did. In any case, Tom ought to be finished reading to them. Where was he? Hermione rose from her desk and went to look for him in his home office.

He had cast a sound-muffling spell from the inside, so she did not hear the music until she cracked the door open. Her eyes widened in unmitigated shock at the crooning of Frank Sinatra. Tom, listening to _Muggle_ songs? Having grown up in the forties, Tom preferred swingy music, but the wizarding world had its own musicians. Even at a low volume, clearly meant for background noise, his choice of audio was unbelievable to her—but she was not about to comment on it to his face. Hermione gazed at the old-fashioned phonograph that he had on his desk, where he sat, brooding, a series of text-filled papers spread out on the desktop before him. She entered the office and closed the door behind her.

He met her gaze with his, turning the knob on the phonograph with one hand and silencing the record. His eyes were tired and faintly bloodshot. An empty water glass sat on the desk. Hermione’s heart suddenly went out to him. _He really has had a long day,_ she thought. She moved toward the desk, glancing around the room for a spare chair, but there was none. Tom noticed her eye movements and whipped out his wand, making a chair suddenly appear that Hermione recognized as belonging to their dining set. She pulled it close to his desk chair and sat down.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, glancing at the papers on his desk.

He sighed heavily. “I’m sure you know.”

She frowned at one of the documents, recognizing it as a Ministry case file about an incident of magical street crime— _no,_ she corrected herself in thought as she looked more closely, _it’s… a Dark wizard practicing Healing without a license… after a fashion…._ She craned her neck to try to skim the introductory paragraph.

“You _don’t_ know?” Tom asked, eyebrows knitting in surprise. “The incidents have been in the _Prophet_ periodically. I assumed you would have taken notice, given the content….”

Hermione finished reading the first paragraph of the file. It was enough for her to comprehend the situation, but—

“I haven’t been aware of this,” she admitted to him. “Have these been page one headlines?”

“No, mainly items in the back pages.”

“Then I wouldn’t have paid attention,” she said, somewhat embarrassed. “I haven’t had the time in months to read the _Prophet_ through.” She fixed her gaze on him. “So. These”—she scanned the document again—“‘Knockturn Alley healers’ have been performing illegal Dark Arts abortions on witches—”

“Not illegal,” Tom admitted grudgingly.

Hermione raised her eyebrows.

“Not illegal _yet,”_ he amended, his features suddenly hardening. An idea had occurred to him. “As long as their ‘patients’ know what is being done and what the risks are, they are allowed to do this under my Magical Innovation and Human Subjects Act, because the curses aren’t explicitly banned elsewhere.”

Hermione forbore from rolling her eyes at that aseptic name. As she had grown older, she had become more inclined toward personal freedom. She now generally supported the principle that the law should allow adults to assume personal risks as they saw fit, so she had not wanted to fight him when he had pushed for this. Besides, this really could further magical innovation and sometimes have personal benefits for the recipient of the magic. She could have that view, while also believing that it would be very bad if Dark wizards began widely and carelessly experimenting on people simply because they had the proper legal forms “explaining the risks.”

Still, more important was his clear implication that he believed the solution to _this_ specific problem was to outlaw the spells that these people were using on witches—or, she suspected, witches on themselves, if they had the skill. She had not been aware of these incidents, but now that she was, she was not surprised in the least that some women were resorting to such measures. The only thing surprising was that it had taken almost three years for it to happen regularly. And _were_ they truly consenting to the risk of the Dark curses if they felt that they had no other option? That, she thought, was an important issue to consider.

“That won’t work, you know,” she said.

He looked defensive. “I didn’t suggest anything.”

“You didn’t need to say it outright. You obviously think that the answer is to ban these spells. Tom, why do you think witches are resorting to this in the first place?” Without waiting for an answer, she continued, looking him in the eye. “Do you think this is something that any witch would _want_ done to her? If these practices really are legal, then these ‘healers’ have been giving their patients truthful information about the risks, and the women choose to accept those risks anyway. They do it because they’re not allowed to get the potion anymore.” _The potion,_ Hermione thought wryly, _like “the Pill.”_

Tom scowled. “It’s amazing no one has died yet, and I’m sure it is only a matter of time.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Well, then—”

“The _point_ of my law is to raise the birth rate, so it’s quite bad enough if people become sterile. Still,” he considered, “that _might_ be reversible. It might be that we just don’t know how to do it yet. But if women start dying, that’s that, isn’t it? No reversal.” He smiled darkly at her. “Yes, I have a dodge, but it’s not one I can promote to the wizarding world.” He paused and added under his breath, “And it would sicken me if some stranger did it but not my own family.”

Hermione glared. “Tom!”

He stared back defiantly. “So this is undermining my law’s success already, even without deaths. If this continues, or if people do start to die, then the _Daily Prophet_ will come for my head—again. I have to do something.”

“If you outlaw these curses, these women will just find another loophole— _especially_ if you continue with your ‘Dark Arts legal reform’ policies. They do it because they don’t want to be pregnant, just as—” She broke off. He would not like the phrase “just as I told you.” No one did.

But he had completed the sentence in his own mind. His eyebrows narrowed in irritation. “Does this make you happy?” he sneered.

“Of course it doesn’t. This is a terrible situation, but the solution isn’t to ban something else. Besides,” she added, “do you really want to make more Dark Arts spells illegal? _You?”_ _That might persuade him,_ she thought.

He met her gaze with a level look of his own. “I know that you don’t care as much as I do about the legality of Dark magic.”

“Well, it’s extremely important to you, so few would,” she said diplomatically. “But Tom, think about what I said. You want to lift several restrictions on Dark magic, so it will look capricious and hypocritical if you _add_ restrictions for Dark spells that inconvenience a political agenda of your own. And I’m serious: If you make these spells illegal, witches will just find something else, probably something even riskier. They’ve already shown that they will take on terrible risk, seeing incompetent Dark wizards. What will be next, poisons? I suppose you could throw women into Azkaban for anything that does the same thing as the banned potion, but is that really what you want to do?”

Tom sighed and rubbed the sides of his head. He appeared to have suddenly given up, which surprised Hermione—and alarmed her. Tom did not usually shift from half-furious determination to pessimistic defeat so quickly.

“Tom?” she asked, her voice gentler. She leaned toward him.

He mumbled something under his breath that was indecipherable to her.

“Tom?” she asked again. “What did you say?”

“I don’t want to do that,” he muttered. “I _won’t_ do that. I don’t want more witches and wizards in Azkaban for Dark magic.” He met her eyes with his, and once again they looked weary. “I know what you want to happen. You want me to repeal the law. You never liked it, even after my compromises. But Hermione, it _does_ have a purpose. You saw the population analysis. This is not an imaginary problem that we face, and the law _is working.”_

Hermione gazed skeptically at him. “I’d like to see evidence of that. People find ways to sidestep laws they don’t like, as we have seen.”

His eyes flashed. “Fine.” He began shuffling through the papers on his desk, looking for particular ones. Finding them, he presented them to Hermione. She took them out of his hands and began to read them, focusing on the tables and charts. Somewhat to her surprise, the papers did show a rise in birth rate.

“This is not a long period of time,” she began, passing the documents back to him, “but I see what you mean.”

“How could you have read them that quickly?”

She stared at him, nonplussed. “I didn’t need to read all the print. The tables and graphs told me what I needed to know.”

He looked as if he wanted to say more, but then changed his mind. “Fine. You see for yourself, then, that this _is_ causing our birth rate to tick back up. I don’t want to reverse that.”

“So you’ve changed your mind about these witches? Their sufferings are acceptable for the greater good?”

He started, and for a moment his eyes flashed. “You know I didn’t say that. I’ve said the opposite. I am _trying_ to think of a solution that stops this from happening and keeps the law in place. You’re not being helpful.”

Irritation flooded Hermione’s body. “I came here because it is late and it’s time for you to turn in,” she said hotly, “not for you to drag me into the problems that you created for yourself. That’s what really troubles you, isn’t it, the awareness that the press will go after you if this doesn’t stop?”

Tom drew back from her as if she had slapped him. “Good night, Hermione,” he said coldly. “I’ll join you in a bit.”

Hermione recognized that as the dismissal it was. She suddenly felt terrible. She had meant to urge him to set work aside for the night and come to bed, and she had felt sympathy for him upon seeing his exhausted appearance. Now he was basically ordering her out of the office because they were narrowly avoiding having a fight. What had gone wrong?

 _We both should be in bed,_ she thought sadly, leaving the room and closing the door behind her. _We’re both under too much stress, and are too exhausted, to have a productive discussion right now._ She went the short distance into their bedroom, took a quick shower, and collapsed through the green drapes of their large canopy bed onto the mattress. Her conscious brain seemed to slow down almost as soon as she touched the pillow, and within minutes, she was dozing.

She was not quite asleep, so she heard him enter the shower in a little bit and vaguely understood what the sound meant. To her semiconscious mind, the passage of time was compressed. It seemed almost immediate that he was out of the shower, throwing the draperies back, and climbing into bed with her. The mattress shifted with his weight. Hermione began to ease out of her half-asleep state.

He paused for a moment before leaning over her. The warmth his body radiated enveloped her, and then he began to rub her shoulders and plant light kisses on the side of her neck.

It was pleasant, but Hermione—now awake and aware—knew it could not go as far as he probably wished it to. She was just too tired. She let him continue for a bit, even allowing him to roll her onto her back and hover over her, but it was primarily because she did not have the energy to put a stop to it. But when he took hold of her wrists and started to lift her arms above her head, she spoke up.

“Not tonight, Tom.”

He paused but did not release her arms.

“I’m too tired. I was almost asleep before you came in.” As soon as the words left her mouth, she regretted how they sounded—she had _not_ meant them to cast blame at him for disturbing her rest—but she was not even herself enough to formulate her words with the connotation she wanted.

He drew away at once, like a snake recoiling. “I _beg_ your pardon, then,” he said, hurt and rejection seeping from his words. Immediately he settled himself on his own pillow, not touching her at all.

She missed his touch at once, and she felt bad for offending him. “Tom, I didn’t mean it that way. I’m sorry, really. I wasn’t blaming you. I just… can’t tonight.”

He was silent for a moment, apparently considering her apology and deciding what to say. Finally he spoke again, and his voice was low and tight. “It’s been—what? Three weeks? Four?”

“Tom, I’m _sorry._ I’ve been mentally exhausted for a while now, what with work.”

There was another silent pause. “I see. Well. I hope your _relationships_ with Advance and the Museum improve,” he said pointedly. “Good night.” He turned on his side, away from her.

Those words cut. He obviously thought that he was competing with her work for her time and devotion—and losing. This was wrong, so wrong. She was correct earlier that the exhaustion was hurting their marriage… but what was the answer? It wouldn’t solve the problem if she just lay there and let him do what he wanted. He would want her to participate. And there was still the fact that they had almost had an argument a little while ago. She wasn’t angry at him, nor he at her. It was exhaustion… but she couldn’t hand off Advance or the National Museum to anyone else. There was no answer. They’d just have to get through this. At least she didn’t have to worry about infidelity or a sudden serving of divorce papers. Not from Tom Riddle.

Still, she could not stand to look at that lump on the other side of the bed. “Tom,” she said softly, moving closer to him. She pressed against him and draped an arm around his waist.

He had been coiled into himself, like a snake, with tension and more than a little hostility, but when he felt her touch, she felt him relax. A small smile formed on her face as she curled against him. She placed a chaste kiss on the space between his shoulder and his neck. “It’ll get better,” she whispered.

He didn’t respond.

* * *

The next morning, they awoke at the same time. She was still pressed against him. The memories of the previous night’s unpleasantness filled her immediately, and when he stretched and got out of bed with nary a greeting, she realized that her cuddling had not bridged the distance. It was better than nothing, surely, but it was not enough.

As they prepared for work that morning, she noticed that he did not seem to be harboring noticeable anger toward her anymore. Instead, his brow was faintly furrowed, and his eyes had a distracted look in them. He was preoccupied too, then, whether with the Knockturn Alley healer problem or with concern for their relationship—or both.

She went to get Virgil and Cynthia out of their rooms and brought them downstairs. She did not usually bring Madeline to work anymore. She was almost ten, and she had clamored to be allowed to stay at home now, with her push for independence that all older children went through. Hermione had felt a pang upon doing it, and she had made sure to lock certain rooms in the house, but her daughter was very responsible, and after all, she would be going to Hogwarts in a couple of years.

Tom gathered his wand and briefcase. He shrugged on his overcoat lined in green satin, and gave Hermione an intense look—and a faint smile—before Apparating to the Ministry. It made her heart thump with hope. Maybe things _were_ about to get better.

But first, she had a board meeting with her vice presidents. She had known it was coming, and she had prepared obsessively, reading all the briefings about the issues that they wanted to address concerning their departments. She had to know just as much about matters as they did.

The central topic of discussion was, in fact, the direction that the organization should take in relation to the Minister’s recent law permitting experimentation with Dark magic. Should Research start performing studies in that field of magic? Should the organization award grants?

“Personally,” her Vice President of Research opined, “I _do_ think we should have some people working on it internally. The safest setting is controlled research, with credentialed and competent people. It’s going to happen anyway, what with the Minister’s new law, so better that it happen in a safe environment.”

“We don’t have a standard way of measuring competence in the Dark Arts in Britain,” the VP of Policy pointed out. “Hogwarts doesn’t teach it.”

Hermione knew quite well that changing that was part of Tom’s master plan. She also knew that this particular vice president was a political supporter of his.

The Research VP shrugged. “Hire them from Durmstrang until we figure it out. It’s taught there.”

Hermione spoke up. “We would want to be sure that we didn’t duplicate anything that was taking place in the Department of Mysteries.”

All of her board stared at her in surprise. The Policy VP spoke for them. “But, Madam President… the Department of Mysteries doesn’t study the Dark Arts… does it?” The witch trailed off hesitantly, aware that Hermione might have inside information that they were not privy to.

Hermione felt heat rush up her cheeks. She honestly did not know the answer. Quickly she tried to remember what the Department of Mysteries studied. _Time, space, death, thought, precognition, clairvoyance, love…._ “I… don’t actually know,” she admitted, embarrassed to betray ignorance before her board.

“You’re quite right that we should find out, though,” the Research VP agreed. “But assuming that they don’t, I still think we should take the lead….”

Hermione almost tuned out the rest of the meeting. Her vice presidents clearly all supported initiating an in-house research group focusing on the Dark Arts, and as the meeting wore on, the consensus grew that the organization should _not_ award grants to outside researchers, because of the risk associated with the research and the inability of the nonprofit to supervise outside wizards and witches.

The meeting ended, and Hermione dismissed her vice presidents. She remained in the boardroom to contemplate what had happened. _They don’t actually need me to hold their hands,_ she thought. _They can reach a conclusion without being directed by me._

The implications of that slammed into her mind immediately.

 _My board of vice presidents can work collectively, and perhaps I should let them do that,_ she thought, clarity breaking through her mind. _The organization is not singularly focused anymore, and they would know more about their own divisions than I could. I can’t know every little detail about everything in an organization this large. I can veto if they go in a direction I don’t like, but otherwise maybe I should just let them take the lead. My position has become a corporate management role more than anything else, too far removed from the interesting work. The museum is not so unwieldy. Maybe I should focus on that now._

It really wasn’t a bad idea to move to a sort of senior advisory position as president. She had needed to take a firm hand when first starting the nonprofit, but she had competent, trustworthy people as her vice presidents. She didn’t need to micro-manage everything. As a perfectionist, she had difficulty letting go to any degree whatever… she had _that_ entirely in common with Tom… but it could be counterproductive if she took on more than she could handle.

* * *

Tom pondered the situation all day at the Ministry. Fortunately, it was a relatively slow day, so he had the time to think.

He was very unhappy about the state of his relationship with Hermione. She was tired, yes—he could see that in her eyes every day—but she _was_ choosing her work over their marriage. She wasn’t neglecting the children; she was putting _him_ last, as the one claim on her that could be taken somewhat for granted. Rationally, he supposed it made a certain kind of sense. The children needed parents, whereas he was a grown wizard. She also knew that he would not consider putting her aside or—ugh—turning to someone else. Even if the idea had been tempting instead of disgusting, he was above debasing himself thus. He wanted _Hermione._ His feelings for her were unique, and he would have _her_ —or no one.

 _That’s enough of that,_ he reprimanded himself mentally. _I do have her. I’m not alone. She regretted the “incidents” last night, and she spent the night curled against me. I should have turned around and held her too, come to think of it. She is not about to leave me. She just has this tight-fisted control over her two big work matters, and between that and being a mother, it leaves little time for me._

He understood that she did not want to turn over her organization or the museum to anyone else, and he sympathized, but he had learned some time ago as a Department Head—let alone as Minister—that he _had_ to cultivate underlings to handle some things. Surely she had such people.

If she did not, he would suggest it to her. This had to change. She might think she was functional with regard to her work, but he had seen in her eyes how tired she was. It was a matter of time before everything she was trying to do collapsed.

Tom filed that resolution away in his mind. If Hermione came home bleary-eyed and snappish again, he would— _diplomatically—_ suggest that she give more responsibility to some of her people, and he would do his best not to take offense if she got angry. He turned then to the other matter before him, the Knockturn Alley healer situation.

That… was a more difficult problem. Tom really did not want to repeal his law. It was working, and some sort of pro-natalist policy was necessary. Hermione had hit on something last night, though he would not admit it: A part of this _was_ his own concern about being attacked if this situation continued. Most of the rest of it was dismay at the harm—however small—to the magical population if people became sterile or died early. He could not really muster that much individualized pity for people who knowingly put themselves in harm’s way under these circumstances. There _were_ options available if they were poor or did not want to raise children themselves.

Still… maybe Hermione had a point. Maybe there were always going to be people who were so determined on something that they would find a way, however dangerous. Maybe if he banned the Dark Arts curses that these pseudo-healers were using, the witches _would_ resort to poisoning themselves. All sorts of potions, including many that did not even qualify as poisons in the usual sense, could harm developing fetuses if a mother-to-be did not take an antidote quickly enough. He actually would have to target pregnant women themselves rather than specific activities. He would have to create a law to throw witches in jail. The idea was incredibly distasteful to him—and, yes, it would be incredibly unpopular. He might not even have his own faction behind him for that.

Tom squeezed his eyes shut in consternation as he arrived at the logical conclusion of this line of thought. He _would_ have to make some changes to his law if he wanted to put an end to women seeking out dangerous curses from incompetent Dark Arts practitioners. If they were that bloody determined, then… maybe they should have access to the potion after all. At least it wouldn’t put their lives or fertility at risk. They might change their minds later; at least they wouldn’t be sterile that way.

But how to single out the most desperate for an exception in the law? It was one thing to identify the women with medical risks, the rape victims, the students at school, the mothers of three, and the ones who declared that they never wanted children. How could he identify the truly desperate? How could he single them out from the people who would take the potion if it were available, but would not risk going to a shady Knockturn Alley healer if it weren’t? As he pondered this, he came to realize that… he couldn’t. If he let them have it, he’d have to open the doors again.

And yet, those statistics. The law was achieving its aim.

 _I do not want to undo the progress,_ he thought determinedly—and then, at once, he had a brilliant flash of inspiration.

He took up his quill immediately and began writing notes for himself.

* * *

That evening, Hermione came in looking, once again, tired—but also resolved and more at peace than he had seen her look in quite some time. He wondered if she’d had a revelation as he had.

Well, best to ask. They could not begin bridging the gap between themselves too quickly. “How was your day?” he asked. “You look happier.”

Her gaze fluttered to his. A faint smile formed on her lips. “It was… an illuminating day,” she said. “I had a board meeting, and something occurred to me then.”

“Oh?”

She nodded. “Yes,” she said. “I’ve decided to take a more hands-off approach to Advance in the future. My vice presidents proved at the meeting that they are perfectly capable of deciding things without being told what to do.”

Tom’s face was breaking into a smile. This was _exactly_ the realization he had hoped she would come to herself.

“I will keep my veto powers,” she clarified, “so that I can say no if they want to do something I don’t like, but I’m going to loosen my grip on this otherwise. I think it’s the right decision. It’ll free me up to focus on the museum more, and… our family. And us.”

He closed the gap between them and kissed her on the cheek. Her face flushed, and she regarded him with silent pleasure.

He hung his hat on the stand and gave her a very familiar smirk. “I thought of a solution to my problem too,” he said.

Immediately she tensed in apprehension. “Oh?” she inquired, some of the warmth replaced with worry. “And what is it?”

“You’ll be glad to know that I am lifting all restrictions on who can get the potion,” he began. A triumphant smile appeared on her face at those words. He continued, _“However,_ they have to go to St. Mungo’s to receive it. I am _not_ putting the plant back on the private market. It’s still a Non-Tradeable Substance.”

Hermione stared at him, considering this. At last, she nodded. “All right,” she said. “I guess I see your reasoning.”

“There will probably be some people taking it who otherwise would carry the pregnancies to term,” he allowed, “but… going to the hospital is an additional step they have to take. It’s not the same thing as having the plant or the potion itself widely available for anyone to buy at the apothecary. And policy-wise, it still sends the message that the Ministry favors family growth.”

“It sends the message that the Ministry favors family growth, but also respects personal choices and _values the safety of witches,”_ Hermione added.

Tom nodded curtly. “I suppose it does, at that.”

She smiled. “I am all right with this version of the law.”

“I’m glad I have your approval, _dear.”_ He drew forward and placed his hands on her waist. His dark eyes gazed greedily at her.

She breathed deeply. _“Later,”_ she said softly.

“‘Later.’ You mean it this time?”

“I mean it.”

* * *

Late that night, after they had had their baths and were standing near each other in the master bedroom, he turned to her with that dark, desirous gleam in his eyes once more.

Her heart thumped. It _had_ been a while. She had been too tired for weeks now, but it was as if the desire she had missed during all that time had accumulated without her awareness and was now about to burst forth. She took deliberately tentative steps toward him, aware of the effect her delay would have on him—

It was instant. An almost inaudible moan escaped his throat. He strode forward, grabbed her aggressively around the waist, and walked her backward to the bed, shoving her down and immediately getting on top of her. His hands got busy with her sleep robe, pulling it off her. He shed himself of his own satiny robe in two seconds, the fabric sliding off his arms and shoulders in shimmery waves.

As he had done the previous night, he took her wrists in hand and raised them above her head.

“I think,” he murmured, reaching toward the nightstand for his wand, “that I’d better ensure you follow through, this time.” He cast Incarcerous, binding her wrists to the bedpost. “Am I right?”

She gazed at him with lust in her eyes. “You don’t have to ‘ensure’ it tonight.”

His fingers touched her hips lightly, fingertips slipping underneath her knickers. “I’m going to anyway,” he growled, taking them off with a single sweep. Her breath caught in her chest as he descended upon her.

Everything was intensified—every touch, every light kiss. At one critical moment when he drew his hand away from her core, he leered at her with a smirk across his face. In the next second, he was in her to the hilt—no careful, slow movement needed, not tonight. She was more than ready for him. He kept his hands on her waist, long fingers reaching her hips, bracing himself against her as he moved aggressively. They found their release quickly, hot and satisfying. Then, half an hour later, they wanted more. The second time was more deliberate and tender.

Finally, when he was lying on his back, breathing deeply and gazing with dark eyes open wide at the canopy of their bed, she climbed halfway over him and placed a kiss on his cheek. She lay down and curled against him. In a minute, he turned on his side and wrapped an arm around her.

For the first time in almost a month, they fell asleep feeling close, intimate, and at last, relaxed.


	30. Dark Matter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom wants to expand tolerance of the Dark Arts even more by pressuring Hogwarts to teach them, but Dumbledore has tricks up his sleeve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, thank you for continuing to read this fic! After the next chapter, I am afraid this sort of wait (or longer) is how it’s going to be for the foreseeable future, since I’ve (perhaps temporarily—we shall see) decelerated the speed of my idea generator for this fic, and also since I’m working on a new fic in a different AU and I’ve set a weekly update schedule for that one. I have another chapter that I expect will go up pretty shortly that is about werewolves. You may, in fact, have expected this to be that chapter, if you read all the comments on this website on my medieval AU _Serpentine Moves_. But I had this idea and I want to do it first for a couple of reasons that will be explained in the werewolf chapter.

_October 1961._

Alone in his home office, Tom sighed. It had been a long day, though not for work reasons. This had been Madeline’s eleventh birthday, and they had hosted a little party for her and three friends. The party itself had not been that difficult to plan for, but for some reason, the implications of the day itself weighed heavily on Tom’s mind.

Of course, part of it had been that long-expected birthday treat for any wizarding child raised in their rightful world— _no,_ Tom corrected himself, any wizarding child at all now, since the families of Muggle-borns were informed of it in their child’s infancy and Ministry case workers visited frequently. But even though he had known this day would come since the day she was born, it was still momentous when that letter shot through the Floo connection. In not quite a year, his oldest child would be attending Hogwarts.

Thinking about Hogwarts led Tom down a train of thought that he had occasionally considered for years. It was a disgrace, in his opinion, that the school would not teach the Dark Arts. There was nothing wrong with Defense, certainly, but how could witches and wizards _really_ understand how to defend themselves if they were not permitted more than superficial knowledge of what they were defending themselves _from?_ People like Dumbledore were worried that many people would be unable to control their magic, causing harm to themselves and others… but that was exactly why the subject should be taught.

 _An elective,_ he mused. _A NEWT-level elective that requires a high OWL in Defense before someone is allowed to take it._ Tom rather thought that the way the school handled its elective classes needed to change, too; they should do their career counseling at the end of _second_ year, not fifth, so that students would actually know what electives they should take to pursue a given profession. But he supposed, somewhat reluctantly, that a “special” elective like the Dark Arts should probably only be taught to older students.

Yes. That was what he would present as his next policy initiative. He had already changed people’s views on the Dark Arts by virtue of his limited legalization of “experimental” Dark magic—not to mention his self-identification as a Dark wizard “when necessary.” _It’s stunning how sycophantic most people are,_ he thought scornfully. _Something that was long controversial, at best, suddenly gets normalized because a popular leader endorses it._ Tom was certainly grateful that a critical percentage of the public was inclined to “follow the leader,” but he did not admire them for doing so. Far better if they had come to the same conclusion themselves by thinking about it, rather than suddenly reversing course on their own long-held beliefs because they were fundamentally followers. It would make their support more robust if their change of opinion had been thoughtful. As it was, they could just as easily switch back if a charismatic opposition figure were to stand up….

 _And that’s exactly why it is so important to teach the subject matter here in Britain,_ he thought. Yes—he would present it this way, with the compromise that it would be a NEWT-only course, not something to be taught to young teenagers. Surely that would satisfy the likes of Albus Dumbledore.

* * *

Tom held a meeting of his inner circle at the Serpents’ Chalice the next day to offer his policy proposal. Next to him, Hermione sat tight-lipped and unsmiling. As he had promised her years ago, he had explained his ideas to her before the meeting, so she knew. She had not approved of it, though she had not been hostile in her opposition and had assured him that she wouldn’t pick a public fight with him in front of his people.

True to her word, Hermione did not voice her disapproval at the meeting. Instead Tom observed her brown eyes dart around the table surreptitiously, gauging the reaction of the other people. Vincent Rosier was, predictably, in favor. That was no surprise; he was from a famously Dark Arts-tolerant family. Several other people were nodding complacently, or even enthusiastically.

But not all. Three people at the table were gazing at the Minister with clear disagreement written on their faces.

“Minister,” said Geoffrey Fox, Head of the Office of Non-Magical Families of Witches and Wizards. “This is… something I have concerns about.”

Tom’s gaze swiveled to the bureaucrat. “What troubles you, Geoffrey?” he asked coolly.

To his credit, Fox did not wilt. He had been a supporter of Tom’s since almost the beginning of Tom’s Ministry career, and he was not intimidated. _He was also a Gryffindor,_ Tom thought.

Fox continued, “I’m concerned about the age factor. Even if most of them would be seventeen or eighteen, I still think that’s too young. People can make some pretty awful decisions at eighteen….” He trailed off at the peculiar look of mixed fear and rage that passed over Tom’s face for a fraction of a second. “I didn’t mean _you,_ Minister,” Fox said quickly. “Obviously you and your wife were very exceptional… using the Dark Arts for a good purpose, like defeating Grindelwald….”

At some point, this had become accepted fact, even though it was not actually true and Tom had never claimed it was. He had also never disputed the claim when the Dark Force Defense League had made it four years ago, and that was enough.

“Still, my daughter… I mean, I know a lot about the Dark Arts now, and there are plenty of topics I wouldn’t want her to be exposed to at age seventeen.”

“When she turns seventeen,” Tom retorted, “she has the right to learn anything she likes.”

“That’s certainly true, but… I’m sure that you know even more about the Dark Arts than I do. Would you want _your_ children to know about all of it just as soon as they come of age?”

“There is not one topic that I would have a problem telling them about when they’re that age,” Tom said icily. “Not a single one.”

Hermione did not look at him. She had hoped that he would accept it if their children were not as interested in Dark Magic as he was… she had hoped he would drop his idea of indoctrinating them in his own views… but it seemed otherwise. She would not look at him. She couldn’t.

In this moment, Tom was a little scary, and to several of the people at the table—even those who agreed with him—it was disconcerting. Rumblings filled the table for a moment, but died down quickly. Fox and his two allies shifted in their seats. “I see. Very well,” the man said, looking down. “We have a difference of opinion on this, Minister.”

Tom breathed deeply. He gazed around the table, sizing up everyone else, and came to the same conclusion that Hermione had: Most of his cronies agreed with him.

“That’s fine,” Tom managed. “I don’t demand total conformity of opinion.” He pasted a smile on his face. “We’re a political faction, not a cult, and there have certainly been occasions before when we didn’t all fully agree. That said,” he continued, “I _am_ the Minister for Magic, and I am going to push for this policy in the coming days. You don’t have to claim to support it if you don’t, but I must ask that you not undermine me publicly.” He gazed at the three dissenters pointedly.

They shifted nervously some more, mumbling statements of agreement. Tom’s vaguely sinister smile broadened.

* * *

_Minister Riddle to Push Hogwarts to Teach the Dark Arts_

_Minister for Magic Tom Riddle has announced a policy initiative to change the curriculum of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, with the goal of having the school offer a course in the Dark Arts to advanced students. Riddle, an acknowledged Dark wizard, states that the initiative is a “natural next step” to promote “knowledge and responsible use” of the controversial field of magic, following his previous policy to permit the experimental use of Dark spells on willing adult subjects with the risks of the magic stated honestly._

_“Britain, unfortunately, has fallen behind countries in Northern and Eastern Europe that are in Durmstrang’s sphere of influence,” Riddle stated to the Daily Prophet, referring to the famously Dark Arts-tolerant school of magic where the subject is taught to students. “The Dark Arts are an ancient branch of magic, and as we have seen already, can be used for benevolent purposes with the proper intent. They are also the basis of most magical innovation. My proposed policy would be for a NEWT-level elective that students would be allowed to take only if they had already shown proficiency in their Defense OWL.”_

_It is true that, although the Dark Arts are usually associated with harm, Dark spells actually are fueled by the intent of the witch or wizard casting them, and therefore do not have to be harmful. Furthermore, Riddle has acknowledged that he used Dark spells to defeat criminals in the Soviet Union who had violated the Statute of Secrecy and betrayed fellow witches and wizards to Muggle authorities, and it is strongly believed that he and his wife Hermione, the chairwoman of the National Museum of Magic, used Dark Magic to defeat the wizard Gellert Grindelwald in 1945._

_But it appears that Riddle’s way will not be smooth. When asked for comment, Headmaster Albus Dumbledore stated, “I have deep concerns about the idea of teaching Dark Magic in Hogwarts, and I would like to remind the Minister that the Ministry does not have the authority to dictate the curriculum at the school. I look forward to productive discussion with Minister Riddle about this subject.”_

 

Tom set down the newspaper. Underneath it was a deceptively benign-looking invitation from Dumbledore himself to visit the school to talk about the issue. He drew the envelope out from under the paper and read it again, although he knew what it said.

He considered his course of action. The _Prophet_ coverage was, more or less, sympathetic to his position. He also believed that he had public opinion on his side, though he could not be sure. Dumbledore, though, was correct that the Ministry could not inject itself into the Hogwarts curriculum—at least, not without the approval of the Wizengamot.

Would the Wizengamot approve such a change? Tom held the thought in his mind for a moment before dismissing it reluctantly. The Reformist faction would probably be in lockstep against it. Sometimes the Dumbledore supporters and Weasley sycophants in that party disagreed, but this was one matter about which they would not. The Isolationist faction probably would not care for it either; many of them were from old families that had representation on the stable, sedate school board, whereas the direction of the Ministry had been known to shift with the political winds. Tom did mean for that to change… but he could hardly declare _that_ to the wizarding community just yet. And even if all of his Wizarding Nationalists supported him—which they probably would not—with the other parties against him, any proposal to empower the Ministry to meddle with Hogwarts would go down in flames. No, asking the Wizengamot to change the rules was not viable.

Tom was also not convinced Dumbledore was susceptible to the pressure of public opinion—assuming that Tom could muster that to his side. The old codger had his _principles,_ and people like that often liked to stand their ground even _especially_ if it meant defying popular opinion. A flicker of self-consciousness passed through Tom’s mind at this line of thought. He too had principles, and they were also pretty inflexible, but he would not consider it a point of pride to stake out an unpopular position for its own sake. He would prefer to change the public’s views instead.

Though, come to think of it, so would Albus Dumbledore. Doomed quixotic stands were not his way. He was a slippery old manipulator….

It really did seem that Tom would have to take the Headmaster up on his offer, as much as he hated the idea. He sighed and considered his plans for the meeting. It would be better to have another push for the policy first, an articulate one expounding upon certain points that Tom thought would be especially persuasive. _Knowledge of the Dark Arts helps people like Aurors and Healers do their job,_ he thought, listing the arguments to himself. _It is a fruitful area of magical discovery, and has been for centuries. And with the Advance Organization now employing in-house Dark researchers, is it not better for those researchers to come from Wizarding Britain than from the Durmstrang area?_ Surely those arguments would work on the public… and Dumbledore was just pragmatic enough that he might not want to fight against a tide.

Tom considered Horace Slughorn as well. Sluggy liked him and Hermione. They had a genial relationship, and Sluggy unquestionably knew a lot about the Dark Arts. Tom, of all people, had personal confirmation of _that._ But at the same time, Sluggy did not really _approve_ of the branch of magic. Tom was not sure whether Slughorn’s personal approval of _him_ (and Hermione) would triumph over his wariness of the type of magic that he wanted the school to teach. Slughorn was probably an easier mark than Dumbledore, but he was very far from being a guaranteed ally against the Headmaster. That was also something Tom would have to keep in mind during the visit to Hogwarts.

* * *

In the first few days after the article appeared in the newspaper, Hermione found that she had become curiously philosophical about it all.

 _He is a Dark wizard,_ she thought. _He admires the Dark Arts, and he always has. Many things about him have changed, but that has not. After all, in the other timeline, he did want to be the professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts, and I don’t believe for a minute that it was because of the “Defense” aspect. He thinks the school should teach the subject. This is something he has never wavered on, never changed his mind. I may not approve of it, but… it really is not surprising._

Hermione also found that, despite her disapproval of the idea, her opposition to it was not nearly as vehement as it had been to the first version of the Wizarding Renaissance. That had been a law that took people’s rights away; this proposal was not. If it did take effect, illegal curses would still be illegal, and school rules about magic usage would still be in effect. There were students who taught themselves the Dark Arts at Hogwarts anyway; with a few exceptions, the books on the subject in the school library were for anyone to read if they were old enough or had a pass to the Restricted Section. She herself had read them. Tom’s policy proposal was about as cautious as she could reasonably expect for something Dark-related coming from him. Only the NEWT Defense students would even be eligible, after all, and the school would get to select its own instructor. The class probably wouldn’t be harmful to the students themselves. The students who would be allowed to take it likely would have learned anyway in private study, in school or immediately after.

A bigger objection that Hermione had to it was that it would normalize the material even more than it already had been… but no, even that wasn’t quite that simple. _Many Dark spells are perfectly legal,_ she thought, _and no one wants this society to fall into anarchy. People aren’t going to start using Unforgivables on each other in the street just because Tom is encouraging more tolerance of the Dark Arts. It’s something else… something about… him… and the way people see him now._ The realization hit her like a brick.

That was what it was. Although Tom was not having everything his own way, and Dumbledore did not seem likely to budge, Hermione was still surprised that, in the course of three days since the original article was printed, there had been very little public opposition in the pages of the _Daily Prophet_ or elsewhere. Septimus Weasley, as usual, had expressed his heavy disapproval, but that was nothing new. Opposition to Tom was almost like an instinctive reflex for that man.

That meeting at the Serpents’ Chalice had been unsettling to watch, and it had reawakened a bit of the old disquiet. Tom’s partisans were afraid of him. It was subtle, but it was there. They knew that he was a Dark wizard with at least one kill to his name: Dolohov. His posture and body language at that meeting—to say nothing of the undertones of his voice—had been intimidating. There had been no serious public revolt over his acknowledgment of being a Dark wizard a few years ago, just the feeble and quickly forgotten protests of a few gadflies. But although the public was no longer shocked, and largely didn’t hold moral disapproval of the Dark Arts in general, this magic did still intimidate or frighten them—and Tom benefited. His political opponents—or would-be rivals such as most of the adults in the Black family—were afraid to openly antagonize a politically (and magically) powerful Dark wizard, but the public disapproval of the Dark Arts was no longer a counterweight to the raw power of that Dark wizard. It left Tom with an outsize amount of power, and Hermione found that a little unsettling.

 _Well, if he isn’t actually doing anything to people to make them fear him—which he isn’t—then there’s nothing I can do anyway,_ she thought. _I can’t make people less intimidated if they’re simply intimidated by what he is. All I can do is make sure he doesn’t abuse the power he is given, and I would do that anyway, for our family’s sake and his own._

Tom was going to go to Hogwarts to meet with Dumbledore, and Hermione resolved that she would attend too. She had a feeling that, for Tom’s sake, she had better be there. She could not explain why, what exactly she thought might happen, but she did not question her own instinct.

* * *

They chose to come to Hogwarts via the main entrance rather than using the Floo to enter Dumbledore’s office directly. The halls of Hogwarts were just as Hermione had remembered. It was peculiar, going back there and walking down the familiar stone corridors, but knowing that in a year, her _daughter_ would be walking these same halls.

Just before they reached Dumbledore’s office, Tom pulled Hermione aside and pushed her gently against the wall. Her eyes flew wide open as he closed in, smirking.

“This hasn’t happened in a while, has it?” he murmured, drawing in and giving her a short but intense kiss.

She threaded her fingers into his hair and gazed into his eyes. “It happened last night… but in the school, no, I can’t say it has.” A smile was playing at the corners of her mouth. “Should we visit the old Room of Requirement after the meeting with Dumbledore? For old times’ sake?”

Tom’s eyes gleamed. “I think that would be an excellent idea.” He drew away from her, taking out the pocket watch she had given him—in that very room, for his eighteenth birthday—and checking the time. “Speaking of the old codger.”

They continued their trek to his office, though both were thinking of other things until the moment they opened the door. In that instant, their more pleasant imaginings fled. Dumbledore gazed back at them, at Tom in particular, with an air better suited to a spider in its web.

“Minister Riddle… and Hermione,” Dumbledore said, an old book open before him on his desk. “I am surprised to see you. _Happy,_ but surprised.”

Hermione smiled emptily back at the Headmaster. He did not _look_ especially happy about her presence. Instead, he looked suddenly conflicted. She wondered what to make of that.

“I thought I should be here,” she explained, “since my organization has a research division with a Dark Arts laboratory. I mainly take an oversight role in my position as president, of course… I’m more focused on the museum… but it’s the only research institution in Wizarding Britain that does anything in the subject.” That was not the reason at all, but Dumbledore did not need to know the truth—that she was here because she distrusted his intentions, even if she agreed with his view, and she wanted to protect Tom from himself if need be.

Dumbledore returned a bland smile. “Indeed. Adults who want to delve into the field have the opportunity to do so in a safe environment.”

Hermione did not miss his pointed use of the word “adults,” but she then noticed that Tom had not responded at all since they came into the office. That was strange. She glanced at him curiously, wondering what sight had silenced him, and then noticed that he was trying as hard as he could to read what was on the pages of the book that Dumbledore had open before him.

As unobtrusively as she could manage, she tried to sneak a look at it herself, but the print was very small. There was, however, a picture on the page: a woodcut of an arm with a long, deep slice in it, and drops of blood falling in curiously perfect vertical alignment toward a circle placeholder marked with occult symbols.

Hermione felt queasy. She recognized that picture. It was not the sort of thing one forgot—and certainly not when she had also had the “pleasure” of watching the man she loved perform the act.

Tom had worked out what it was too, and he was on the verge of gripping the edge of Dumbledore’s desk. He was struggling to keep his countenance. Out of Dumbledore’s sight, hidden by the desktop, she placed a hand gently on his and held it. Immediately he covered hers with his other hand, holding it as if his life depended on it.

The gleam in Dumbledore’s eyes was not a twinkle in this context, but a threat. He closed the book, not making the slightest attempt to hide the title that was engraved into the binding: _Secrets of the Darkest Art._

Tom swallowed. “Interesting choice of reading material, Headmaster. Were you researching the subject in preparation for our visit?”

Hermione certainly had to give him credit for sheer nerve. She ran the pad of her thumb over his hand and felt his other hand enclose hers even more tightly.

Dumbledore smiled fiercely at him, fixing his blue gaze on Tom’s face as Tom averted his eyes from direct contact. “Yes, I was indeed, Tom.”

Tom breathed deeply. “Well, I’m… very surprised, I have to say. That is not a book I would have considered as a text for the subject….”

“You’re sure of that, Tom?”

Behind the desk, Tom squeezed Hermione’s hand. His eyebrows narrowed as he regained a bit of courage at this blatant baiting. “Yes, I’m sure. Now… shall we discuss _reality?”_

Dumbledore regarded him wordlessly for a moment. Time continued to elapse past the point at which a conversationalist would have made a response, and Hermione felt the sudden rush of awkwardness that inevitably developed. “Professor,” she began.

But Dumbledore had begun to speak at the same time. “I would like nothing more than to discuss reality,” he said. “My apologies, Hermione,” he added as he realized that she had spoken too. “Were you going to say something?”

She considered for a brief moment before shaking her head. “Go ahead.”

“Very well. Tom… the _reality_ is that I cannot support this plan of yours to pressure the school to teach the Dark Arts.”

Tom glowered, momentarily forgetting the book that Dumbledore had prominently displayed. “I understand why some people have misgivings about the idea, and that is why my proposal would limit eligible students to those with an OWL in Defense. They would be old enough, and they would have proved their competence. They read books on the Dark Arts on their own anyway,” he muttered.

A faint, ironic smile formed involuntarily on Hermione’s face at that. Tom had realized the same thing she had.

“Yes, Horace and I were reminiscing about some of our most successful students, including you, I must say. He had such interesting discussions with you in his club… and he remarked that wizards of a certain caliber are often drawn to the study,” Dumbledore said, his voice still mild and seemingly nonthreatening, one adult speaking to another about the deeds of youth. But in this context, any mention of Horace Slughorn’s “reminiscences” about Tom, combined with that _blasted_ book and the fact that it had been opened to _that damned page,_ made Dumbledore’s attitude something other than sympathetic nostalgia—and it was very threatening.

 _How the bloody hell could he have guessed?_ Hermione thought. _Slughorn doesn’t remember Tom’s first Killing Curse survival, and Tom put Grindelwald under an Unbreakable Vow over his witness of the second. How—_ but then she remembered. When they had collaborated on removing the dementors from Azkaban, Tom had been aggressive indeed, dancing very close to the subject of Horcruxes. And Dumbledore did appear to know about the discussion with Slughorn….

“But the fact is that young people—even the most brilliant—can sometimes act recklessly,” he continued. “The impulsiveness of youth is inherently more dangerous for witches and wizards, since we can do magic… and the Dark Arts would add even more danger to the situation. Even the very best and brightest students may lose their tempers with friends… or romantic interests,” he added mildly, “and in a fit of anger, do something that they would not otherwise do. That could include Dark curses if they know dangerous ones.”

Hermione’s head swam with sudden confusion. _This_ was not coded intimidation. This was Dumbledore’s honest opinion about the subject at hand. Surely he wouldn’t bother to bandy words with Tom if he truly thought that Tom had done the form of Dark Magic that he, Dumbledore, found most unforgivable… would he?

“These students are put at a disadvantage, compared to competition from Durmstrang, if they want to go into careers that involve dealing with Dark Magic,” Tom said. “Unless, of course, they _have_ studied privately… but they aren’t tested, so there is no standard way of determining who can do what.”

“The Ministry has the right to offer a test if you think it should,” Dumbledore said. “One does not _have_ to even attend Hogwarts to sit the OWL or NEWT, since the Ministry administers them.”

That silenced Tom. His gaze settled once more on the book.

“But I have witnessed so many young people—well-meaning, intelligent, kind young people—have a fit of pique and lose their tempers, and with it, their inhibitions. At least half of the time a student is admitted to the infirmary, it’s not because of an accident; it’s because of a curse or a hex from someone else. Adding Dark Magic to the mix….” Dumbledore broke off, looking sad.

Hermione suddenly realized what he was thinking about, and so did Tom. Tom leaned forward, his eyes gleaming, aggression returning to his posture. He pounced. “Like yourself, your brother, and Grindelwald?”

Hermione wanted to shake him. What was he _thinking?_ She had thought of it too, but this—

Dumbledore looked startled for a moment, but he recovered at once and fixed Tom with his hard stare again. “Yes, Tom, like that. And even adults can sometimes inflict _permanent damage.”_

Tom’s arrogant bravado dimmed again, and he swallowed.

Hermione decided to speak up. She gently stroked Tom’s hands, trying to calm him. “Headmaster, I will speak freely to you. You must realize that we don’t have the votes on the Wizengamot to force the school to do the Ministry’s bidding… and to be honest, I’m not sure that _any_ political faction would want that precedent, even my husband’s. I certainly wouldn’t want it. So if you truly believe that this subject should not be taught here, you have final say over that.” She spoke carefully, choosing her words to try to calm Dumbledore as well, to send him the message that he did not need to blackmail and threaten Tom to protect the school from Tom’s agenda.

Dumbledore studied her face, considering what she said. His face seemed to relax and soften, and Hermione then realized that he had been as tense as Tom. _This is very important to him,_ she thought. _He really, really does not want the Dark Arts taught at this school. That horrible duel with Grindelwald and his brother must truly be the main cause, and it makes sense._

“I… understand the need that some professions have to know the Dark Arts,” Dumbledore said, contemplating. “And it is true that the genesis of new spells, the innovation that has improved our society over the years, is the will of the wizard to make something happen, which is the Dark part, and that ‘light magic’ is a refinement that reduces the amount of oneself that is poured into a spell….”

“Which also reduces the power,” Tom put in, glaring blackly at the Headmaster.

“Yes,” Dumbledore agreed. “It does. Whether that is good or bad depends wholly on the context. But this is the very reason why I cannot let the Dark Arts be taught here, Tom. One only has to mean them for them to work. One _doesn’t_ have to mean them rationally and thoughtfully.”

Tom glowered, avoiding the sight of the book on Dumbledore’s desk. He seemed suddenly depressed, and he rose from the chair, ready to leave the office.

“If it is important to you for people to learn this subject in a structured setting, I urge you to act through the Ministry to achieve your goals,” Dumbledore said briskly. He turned to Hermione. “Hermione, may I have a private word with you?”

Hermione’s heart sank again. This could not be good. Tom shot Dumbledore one last glare before stalking out and shutting the door behind him hard.

She folded her hands and gazed across the desk at him, determined not to wilt before him. He regarded her for a moment, gathering his thoughts, and then spoke.

“I remember what you told me, back in 1945, just before the end of your seventh year,” he said. His voice was calm again, back to its normal, familiar, somewhat comforting tone.

She found herself relieved. “What was that, Professor? Specifically?”

“You mentioned—and I paraphrase—that your life’s work in this time would be ongoing, rather than changing one thing that fixed everything else for good.” He smiled at her. “You have done a fine job so far.”

Hermione was astounded. After _that_ performance—after Dumbledore blatantly, if nonverbally, threatened to accuse Tom of his darkest secret—Dumbledore thought she had _done a fine job?_

He must have noticed her shock, for he smiled sadly at her. “You may tell this old man that it is none of his business, but it’s clear to me that you and Tom love each other—and your family—very much. Your oldest child is going to be here next year, won’t she?”

Hermione nodded. “Her eleventh birthday was recently. She was thrilled to get her letter, even though she knew it was coming.”

“Of course,” he said kindly. “The wonder of a child is a beautiful thing. I still have my letter preserved, though I do not know where now… and I remember my first sight of Hogwarts, long ago….” He trailed off. “I worried about you that day in 1945. I worried that you were making a choice simply because you believed it was your duty. That was why I offered you the option of returning. I was wrong then, and I admit it.” He gazed toward the door, where Tom undoubtedly lurked outside. “Love is the most powerful force in the world,” he finally said. “It sounds like a platitude, but I have learned over my life that it is nevertheless true.” He smiled at her, a melancholy smile, but completely sincere.

Hermione somehow knew that this was her signal that the meeting was at an end. That was certainly an enigmatic little conversation, and she would have to think more about it—but Tom was waiting in the hall for her, and he was not happy. She could hardly blame him. He had not got what he wanted, and instead he had near-confirmation that Dumbledore suspected him in one of his biggest secrets. _It seems that I’ll have to use some of the powerful magic of love immediately,_ she thought wryly as she headed to the door.

* * *

Tom stormed towards the Room of Requirement. His robe was billowing behind him as he strode forward, and he had his wand drawn. Hermione pitied anyone who might cross his path, though fortunately the school was largely deserted, so they did not encounter anyone. It would have been all she could do to keep up with him if he had not been clutching her arm—gently, at least—and therefore slowing down just a bit to accommodate her. It gave her the chance to think about the conversation that had just transpired, and the more she thought about it, the better she felt.

Dumbledore was not apparently interested in proving his suspicion, certainly not in the public sphere. The consequences of that would be severe, and it was clear from the private discussion he’d had with Hermione that destroying Tom was not his goal. In letting Tom know that he had deduced the Horcrux secret, Dumbledore had wanted to check Tom’s power a bit, not rip a husband from his wife, a father from his children. He had not wanted to divide a loving couple and a family over something that, distasteful as it might be, was not actually hurting anything except the wizard who had done it. For all Dumbledore knew, the requisite killing might have been the death of Antonin Dolohov, which was perfectly legal and which Tom had admitted to after their trip to the Soviet bloc. The other obvious possibility, from Dumbledore’s limited perspective, was Myrtle, and that had happened years ago before Hermione even showed up.

Some part of the apparent change in Dumbledore had to be due to the fact that Tom was a productive member of society, and that Dumbledore did _not_ have any reason to think that Tom’s discussion of “seven” with Slughorn was anything more than a rejected theoretical musing. Tom looked perfectly normal, after all; his mind was rational and he had a family that even Dumbledore himself acknowledged was a loving one. Dumbledore had always had a pragmatic side, being willing to work with known Dark wizards and people who were guilty of all sorts of imprisonable offenses, but Hermione was not sure that this was primarily pragmatism. It seemed to be his belief in love.

Dumbledore had always claimed to be a proponent of love and its powers, and it looked as if that ideal was now more important to him even than his disgust for the magic that was his ultimate anathema. She recalled the old timeline, distant though the memories were now. For all his sunny optimism on everything else, _that_ Dumbledore had still had an impenetrable darkness about him when it came to Tom Riddle. He had always excluded Tom from his statements about love. This time, it was different.

They were at their destination, so they stood in front of the entrance to the Room of Requirement and waited. Hermione focused her thoughts on the room she’d had as a seventh year, the room they had shared so many nights in that year. The outline appeared on the wall, and Tom opened the door.

The room was as she had remembered. The large bed, with its green, red, silver, and gold bedspread, stood on the floor. Tom ignored it, however, and sank into one of the armchairs. Hermione took the other one.

“That blasted, meddling old man—” Tom began. He shook his head in fury. “He _knew._ He knew! He had that book out, opened to the very section… that cute little allusion to my conversation with Slughorn…. Hermione, how the hell did he know?”

“He cannot prove it,” Hermione said, trying to reassure him first before saying anything else. “Yes, he suspects, but he _cannot prove it.”_

Tom took a deep breath and let it out. “There is that. He obviously wanted to use this as leverage, since he’s so resolved against letting the Dark Arts be taught here… ‘keep your Dark agenda out of my school or I’ll expose your secret’… but how could he have _known?”_

Hermione did not really want to answer that, since she suspected it was Tom’s own fault in alluding to the topic when they had discussed dementors, but Tom answered his own question.

“Never mind, I’m sure it was the conversation about dementors a couple of years ago,” he said, groaning. “He suspected me of Dark Magic ever since I was a student, and by that time, I had admitted it to that reporter… so if he didn’t already know about the conversation with Slughorn, I’m sure he asked then. But you’re right: He cannot prove it.” Tom scowled. “This makes me almost want to enroll Madeline in Durmstrang instead of here.”

“Dumbledore won’t be unfair to her,” Hermione said at once. “He has flaws, and he does have his favorites among students—”

“You don’t say.”

“—but so does Slughorn. Slughorn will like her, I’m sure. And there’s a difference between having favorites and singling out children for mistreatment and dislike.”

“He singled _me_ out.”

“I don’t think he sees you exactly the same way that he used to… but even so, the wizarding world believes that Dumbledore is related to me,” Hermione said. “He won’t treat her unfairly.”

For a moment Tom wanted to continue arguing, but he seemed to consider what she had said and accepted it. “I hope you’re right. I’m also worried that he’ll try to get me removed from my seat now. He can’t prove I created a Horcrux, and he probably wouldn’t choose to spread innuendo about that particular thing either… but there would be other ways to attack me….”

“Dumbledore is pragmatic,” Hermione said. “I’ll be honest with you: If he wanted to become Minister himself, or there was someone in the Reformist faction who was a real contender—”

“And not a pompous, self-righteous has-been like Weasley.”

“—then he would probably push for that. But there isn’t, and so he would rather have someone intelligent and effective there whom he can work with. That’s you, Tom.”

“What did he say to you when he sent me out of his office?”

“I was going to tell you about that,” she said. “It was an enigmatic conversation, but I thought about it while we were walking up here and I think I know what he was conveying. This is actually why I said just now that I think his view of you has changed.”

“Even with his awareness of…?”

“It seems so.” Hermione explained to Tom what Dumbledore had said and what she thought it meant.

Tom looked scornful at first, but Hermione had anticipated that. After all, she was talking about statements of Albus Dumbledore’s on the subject of love. He did love his family, but his bias against Dumbledore was so great—and it would be especially acute right now—that he would not be amenable to sentimental comments from that source. But as she told Tom of her own interpretations, his face changed.

“That… makes sense,” he acknowledged. He was much calmer now. He reached for her hand, the one that bore the silver-and-emerald serpent ring he had given her in 1945, and caressed that finger especially.

Hermione was relieved that he had accepted her word so quickly, but she was even more relieved that Tom was not spouting threats of killing Dumbledore over this. Perhaps it was merely that he knew how impracticable that would be, especially to get away with, given his prestigious and _very_ public station. Perhaps it was because he knew that Dumbledore _couldn’t_ prove anything, and he was prepared for a political fight if Dumbledore decided to give him one over some unrelated matter. But she also wanted to think that there was more to it, and that over the years, Tom really had moved beyond immediately looking to violence as his first line of defense.

“I want to do something, though,” Tom continued. “For the Dark Arts class.”

“Maybe you should take Dumbledore’s advice and have the Ministry do it,” she suggested. “The Ministry already handles Apparition licensing.”

He nodded. “I could keep the basic plan—Dark Arts courses for adults, limited to those who had earned Outstanding or Exceeds Expectations in their Defense OWLs—but have the Ministry do it, on Ministry property, rather than the school.” He smirked. “That’s preferable, now that I think about it. The old man would have been in charge of the instructor and curriculum if he’d conceded the school for it, but with this plan, he won’t have any say other than his Wizengamot vote. Serves him right.”

Hermione shook her head in mild exasperation, but at the same time, she was relieved that Tom was back to normal and would see fit to take his “revenge” on Dumbledore in this benign way.

They remained in the Room of Requirement for a while after that. The bed _did_ beckon, after all, and they had plenty of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bit with Dumbledore was kind of foreshadowed in the chapter “Curious Allies,” the scene where they discuss the dementors with him. He’s guessed rather a lot since then. He did it in canon, so he can do it here. Unlike in canon, he can’t prove anything, but he doesn’t have to—and, whether he’d admit it or not, he doesn’t really _want_ to. Tom has a family and is a good Minister. Dumbledore can disapprove highly of what he suspects (rightly) that Tom has done without wanting to destroy a family and ruin a beneficial Minister over it. And Hermione is right: He has not written off Tom this time.
> 
> As much as I want Tom to win at (almost) everything, he really is not the sort of person who can be trusted with absolute power—even this AU evolution of him. And I have to confess, the sort of behavior that people exhibit in this chapter is a guilty pleasure of mine.
> 
> The hunt for Fenrir Greyback will be next!


	31. The Nature of the Beast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Aurors finally catch up with the werewolf Fenrir Greyback, but it’s too late for some of his victims.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, a piece that links directly into critical events in the canon timeline. Because of the wait, it’s extra long.
> 
> And guys, you will notice that I have marked the fic as “Complete.” That does **_not_** necessarily mean that this will be the final update. I am still interested in the AU and won’t rule out writing more for it (so please remain subscribed if you are). However, as of this writing, I don’t have any additional ideas for scenes _(ETA: Not true anymore! This is no longer the last chapter of the fic)_. I decided I didn’t want such a long fic to appear abandoned, potentially turning away readers who come across it in listings or on my profile. Thanks so much to everyone who has supported this story!

_Late 1962._

Tom flicked a piece of lint off his jacket. He had charmed it to repel lint and dust; apparently the charm needed refreshing. It would have to be done later, because he had a public meeting.

He had been holding these public town halls every month for about half a year now, and they were quite a success at endearing him to the wizarding public. Public support was critical to keeping the Wizengamot on his side. He was not in danger of losing his coalition on the Wizengamot, but he had certainly failed to implement anything approximating his policy goal of Dark Arts classes at Hogwarts—after a press campaign in the _Daily Prophet_ that had given him rather favorable print.

_Then_ bloody Dumbledore had indicated that he had divined one of Tom’s dark secrets and could blackmail him. It would be very difficult, if not impossible, to “remove” Dumbledore, and Hermione would instantly figure out that he was responsible. She had a certain degree of affection for the man, and Tom did not think that killing Dumbledore would be something she could forgive. Better, too, to keep him alive and a tentative political ally on some matters. Dumbledore’s support _had_ made the difference for a few policies that Tom had proposed, and he _was_ keeping the Reformist faction from falling down the niffler hole of Septimus Weasley’s pro-Muggle ideological radicalism.

—Not that there weren’t forces at work trying to pull the faction in that direction. Unfortunately, Tom had to take a little bit of blame to his own side for that. About a year ago, shortly after the Dark Arts compromise, a couple of enterprising Wizarding Nationalists started a partisan magazine—as Hermione described it with pinched face, and Tom could only agree despite the fact that he liked the content. _The Ouroboros_ unabashedly supported Wizarding Nationalist ideas, acting both as a booster to rally his faction and an intellectual brain trust slightly removed from the Ministry and Wizengamot. Tom himself had contributed a couple of articles to it since it was founded. It was nice to have a venue to explain his ideas in thorough detail. But its success had spawned comparable magazines for the Isolationists and Reformists, each with their own reader base. Hermione was concerned that it would lead to the sides all radicalizing, helped by openly partisan media to provide their news and reinforce their views to their dedicated readers.

Tom had realized after that unpleasant meeting with Dumbledore last year that he needed to make himself less vulnerable, and he trusted Hermione’s misgivings about partisan press, so he also wanted to reduce the danger of living inside an ideological bubble-head charm. He decided that it was better to be proactive in shoring up support instead of reacting to political crises, and keeping up with what the wizarding public _as a whole_ thought—hence his town halls.

Tom’s “Ask Your Minister” sessions were reasonably popular, with a decent crowd attending almost all the time. He was, he must acknowledge, a very attractive, charismatic, and photogenic person, and that made a lot of difference. He smiled his characteristic superiorly-pleased-and-almost-smug smile at the reporters from the _Daily Prophet,_ _Quibbler,_ and the partisan magazines who dutifully wrote about the proceedings at these events even if they did not draw large crowds. The crowd today was, indeed, on the small side of average.

After the town hall began, Tom scanned the sea of hands. Not everyone present had a question; some were there to listen or to support someone who was asking him something. Tom’s sharp eyes quickly fixed upon a very angry-looking wizard who, like a few others, was waving his hand in the air back and forth. Yes, this man looked the most put out of anyone, so it was best to get his complaint out of the way first rather than ending the town hall on what could be a negative note. Tom pointed to the man.

He cast a volume charm on his throat to make his voice louder as he spoke. “Minister,” the wizard growled, “I am here to ask just what is the status of the hunt for the filthy werewolf calling himself Greyback. I would say ‘manhunt,’ except he’s a beast,” the questioner muttered.

Tom scowled for a fraction of a second before forcing his face to look normal again. “Thank you for the question. What is your name?” he asked mildly.

“Lyall Lupin. I work at the Ministry, in fact, and I can’t get a straight answer out of anyone! Are the Aurors even looking for the creature anymore?”

It would figure that _this_ was the man’s question. This was a sore point to Tom. The Aurors were investigating, and had been investigating and searching for Greyback for years. Tom did not blame them for the lack of progress; the werewolf was fiendishly hard to catch. Hermione had told him that this would have been true in the alternate timeline as well… and that was what irked him especially. They _knew_ that this was a problem, and yet that knowledge had been useless.

“Mr. Lupin, the Aurors have an ongoing search for the werewolf calling himself Greyback. It has never stopped, even when they have been called upon for serious international matters involving the Statute of Secrecy. Unfortunately, the werewolf in question has chosen to live on the fringes of society. We think that he lives as a recluse, in the middle of the woods somewhere, far from wizards and probably even Muggles—except, of course, when it is a full moon. He is difficult to track, but rest assured that the Aurors are not going to rest until he is captured.”

The explanation did not even satisfy Tom as he said it, and it certainly did not satisfy Lupin. The wizard’s face grew pinched in anger. “Captured?” he sneered. _“Captured?_ Minister, why not kill the creature?”

“In fact, I _have_ authorized the Aurors to use lethal force against Greyback when they do track him down, if it should be necessary to save themselves or others who may be on the scene.” Tom gazed at the wizard evenly.

“That’s what I think should be done to all werewolves,” the wizard declared. “None of this ‘Wolfsbane Potion’ nonsense. They’re like rabid beasts. Just kill them all and eliminate the threat.” Around him, several people gasped, whether because they considered that shocking and evil, or because they could not believe someone would tell the Minister to his face that a potion his own wife had (purportedly) invented was “nonsense.”

Tom stared him down. This was quite enough, and he was not going to engage in further debate with this one individual who clearly had a fixation with this issue. Perhaps, Tom mused, it was because of the man’s name. Maybe people assumed _he_ was a werewolf because of that surname, and treated him as such, and that was why he hated them so intensely. Merlin knew that Tom himself had gone through a phase in his early teens of hating “Mudbloods” because everyone assumed that about _him_ due to his name.

“The Wolfsbane Potion has enabled werewolves to live normal lives,” Tom said. _“That_ ‘eliminates the threat’ if they take it properly, as the law has required for over a decade. During the full moon, they become wolves with sane, normal human minds—wolf Animagi, essentially. People who want to live _as people,_ to keep those around them safe, don’t deserve to be punished for a responsible choice—least of all executed. That is not on the table, Mr. Lupin,” he added as the wizard grew red in the face. “Greyback, on the other hand, has deliberately chosen to be a criminal. He will be treated as one when the Aurors corner him.” Tom pointed to a witch whose hand was up. “Next question?”

The wizard, Lupin, left the crowd in a huff and did not attend the rest of the town hall. Tom was rather relieved. The drama had so far been rather outsized for such a small crowd.

* * *

Hermione bustled into the Atrium of the Ministry with eight-year-old Virgil and four-year-old Cynthia in tow. Madeline was, of course, at Hogwarts now. She had been placed in Slytherin, just as her parents had long suspected, and she was doing very well at school. She was enjoying it, too, with the sole exception of being deeply disappointed that she did not immediately make the Slytherin Quidditch team. It wasn’t her fault, Slughorn had written to her and Tom in an obsequious, apologetic way—even though he’d had nothing to do with the selection of the players. This particular year, they had a really exceptional crop of Chasers, and Madeline _was_ the alternate, at least. She would probably get to play a game or two this year, and she would almost certainly make it next year, since one of the current ones was a seventh-year and would be gone. In fact, Hermione thought, rumor had it that the fellow might be accepted onto a professional team as soon as January, in which case Madeline would automatically take his place….

“Dad,” Virgil said as Tom strode away from the gaggle of cronies with whom he was idly conversing.

Tom smiled at his family and ushered them away from his cronies so that the latter couldn’t hear what he said privately. Hermione hoped that whatever he wanted to say, it didn’t take long. They were supposed to eat dinner in Diagon Alley, and the children were hungry.

“How was the town hall?” she inquired.

Tom rolled his eyes. “There was a troublemaker, but I picked him out at once and made him go first, so it ended on a better note. He was dissatisfied with the pace of the Greyback search and thought that werewolves should be killed on sight—all of them.”

Hermione scowled. “That’s not going to happen.”

“That’s what I told him. But other than that, it went all right. These sessions were a good idea,” he remarked. “They let me hear about what’s on people’s minds directly from the source, instead of whatever sort of lag there may be if I have to get it from the newspaper or some of my people.” He smirked. “I can act faster that way and avert problems early.”

Hermione chuckled lightly. He really was a good Minister for Magic, she thought affectionately. She didn’t always agree with everything he did—or how he did it—but he was very good at this, and it was good for Wizarding Britain _and_ for him that he had channeled his drive for power this way.

He had not attempted to use the pre-existing blood-purity ideology and “old families” political network for his own purposes, because it would have meant that he would have been beholden to the money, power, and _beliefs_ of his supporters—as would have happened if he had become Voldemort. Instead he had developed and created his own political network, with an intellectually coherent and morally defensible ideology that he had modified from the failed Wizarding Supremacism of Grindelwald, and a power structure in which he was unequivocally the one in charge. There were differences of opinion in his own party, but he tolerated that because he knew that if he tried to control his people _too_ much, he would _lose_ control. His apparent tolerance for mild dissent—among his partisans and his allies in the other two factions—had resulted in his seat as Minister for Magic being very secure indeed after five years.

The one fly in the ointment was Dumbledore. He did have the ability to make life difficult for them… but Hermione did not think he would do it. For one thing, all he had were suspicions. There was no proof like there had been in the old timeline. Dumbledore had never laid hands on Tom’s diary, and he was never going to. Tom was not going around looking for potentially deadly duels to fight; perhaps he’d finally had enough of that after being “killed” twice and having to take drastic measures to silence witnesses both times. Besides, bringing that particular secret into the public domain would do far worse damage to Tom than simply costing him his job, and the damage would not be limited to Tom alone. Hermione knew Dumbledore didn’t want that.

* * *

The Minister’s daily delivery of press clippings was dropped on his desk by a charm. Tom opened the bundle and quickly scanned the articles. In the few days since Lyall Lupin had brought a spark of drama to the town hall meeting, the headline-hungry journalists and ambitious politicians had kicked up a flurry of political dust over lycanthropy matters. The specific concerns that each publication had depended on its nature.

“Minister Riddle Reassures Wizarding Public That Greyback Hunt Is Closing In,” announced _The Ouroboros._ The _Daily Prophet_ had a more skeptical take on that matter: “Ministry Still Claims Greyback Search On Track.”

Tom did not enjoy reading the other two partisan magazines, but he understood the importance of knowing what one’s adversaries were saying and thinking. The years-long hunt for Greyback was not their top concern.

“Monsters Roam Free While Sipping Potion Invented by Minister’s Wife,” shouted _The Sentry,_ the Isolationist magazine. Tom’s gaze tightened in anger, and he involuntarily gripped his wand tighter, as he read this piece. The article, by former _Daily Prophet_ editorial board member Vasile Yaxley, was full of innuendo and vitriol. The main implication was that the Ministry was engaged in a cover-up about Wolfsbane Potion and that it did not really work, but rather, that Tom was allowing killers to prey on the wizarding public, blaming the attacks on the convenient bogeyman of Fenrir Greyback, while Hermione personally profited from sales of the potion. It was completely false; although Advance did hold the patent on the formula, Hermione herself refused all royalties on it. Somehow the slime had got hold of personal information about Catriona Dagworth, as well, making sleazy jibes about her sexuality. _Hermione will not like that a bit,_ Tom reflected. _She believes this woman is a blood relative of hers, and it’s probably true… and she’s cultivated her for years. The woman may be Potions Research Director, but Hermione still will not like the fact that this rag has made a private citizen’s living arrangement the business of Wizarding Britain._

“Minister Refuses to Consider Nondiscrimination Laws for Lycanthropy Victims,” blared _New Camelot,_ the Reformist rag. It was true that Tom had instantly cut down that proposal when someone raised it in the Wizengamot. In his honest opinion, no one should be forced to hire a werewolf if they had concerns; the safety of such a person was entirely dependent on the Wolfsbane Potion. If a werewolf missed a dose, the potion would not be fully effective, and the person would pose a threat during the full moon. Tom was not going to have _bans_ on werewolves living and working in the wizarding world inscribed in law, which was what Hermione had told him was the situation in her old life, but neither was he going to force people to take them on. He scoffed at this magazine but was not as outraged by it; nothing it had said was actually a _lie._ It was just skewed and slanted, and in Tom’s opinion, it had its priorities out of order.

He decided he could safely ignore _The Sentry_ and _New Camelot._ Still, the search for Greyback did need to produce some results. The majority of the Aurors were working on it, since they were in the Minister’s office, not at the beck and call of Caspar Crouch, and that bureaucrat had had to hire more people to the Magical Law Enforcement Squad for apprehending low-level criminals. Tom was pleased about that, at least. Aurors were specially trained elites in their field and should not be sent to arrest fool pranksters or harass law-abiding Dark wizards. Tom had never wanted to become an Auror, but he did respect them, and he was not going to let Ministry bureaucrats waste their skills—not just as powerful wizards, but as shrewd and intelligent detectives.

The search _was_ closing in. His chief Auror, Anne-Claire Abbott, had given him a status update a day ago. They believed that the werewolf was lurking around the east part of the country, where several wizarding families with children had settled. The full moon was approaching, and Tom had directed the Aurors to tip off the parents in that area about the likely danger so that they would keep their children indoors. He was even considering having them create a distraction that would keep the _Muggle_ children in the area inside their homes. The last thing that Tom needed was for a Muggle child to be contaminated with lycanthropy. Such a child would no longer be allowed to remain in the Muggle world, as a security breach, but the child would not be able to do magic and would have no family connection to the wizarding one. Perhaps a “gas leak” to evacuate the area….

Tom absolutely intended that Greyback would be captured at last during this full moon, and his Aurors were assuring him that it was possible. Who knew how long it might have taken to find Greyback if the Aurors were spread thin in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, sent about the country to do tasks that other employees of the department ought to be doing? …Well, Hermione knew, he reflected. Greyback would have continued his campaign of terror for decades in that scenario, and to his eternal bemusement, _he_ would have encouraged it. _How could I have kept blood-purist followers on my side while also enlisting werewolves, since they think lycanthropy is an impurity of blood? Just how stupid are these people?_

The raving conspiracy article of _The Sentry_ answered his unspoken question.

* * *

That evening, Hermione fumed at the article in _The Sentry._ “Catriona has not tried to keep secret that she’s lived for years with Lila Brynolf,” she said to Tom in the family sitting room. “She’s never asserted that they are ‘friends’ or ‘roommates.’ But she isn’t Minister… she’s not a Department Head at the Ministry… she’s not even one of _my_ vice presidents at the organization. She is a Potions researcher. It’s not acceptable for a journalist to pillory a private citizen like this. The rise of partisan magazines has been a bad thing for the wizarding world.”

“ _The Ouroboros_ is all right,” Tom said.

Hermione gave him a squint-eyed, level gaze. “ _The Ouroboros_ doesn’t have to sling mud, because you are popular and you have no charismatic, powerful opponents for it to tear down. I assure you, it would do the same thing if there were any. And to think I used to think the _Daily Prophet_ had no standards.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she remembered the extremely personal attacks of Rita Skeeter on another private citizen, Arthur Weasley, in her old time… but such things no longer came to her mind immediately.

Tom did not take the bait. “Well, I just thought you should know about it. You went to your museum office today, rather than Advance, and in any case, I don’t know if they bring you these rags.”

“I get the _Prophet,_ the _Quibbler, Witch Weekly, Wizarding Britain Weekly,_ any monthly or quarterly editions of research journals, and all three partisan magazines—but only at the Advance office, it’s true.” She crossed the large room to where Virgil and Cynthia were reading. The little girl was getting visibly drowsy. Hermione gently pulled her away from her picture book and carried her across the room.

“I’m not sleepy, Mum,” she protested through a yawn.

“Yes, you are,” Hermione said gently but firmly. “You’ve had a long day.”

“I want an ashwinder….” The book that she had been examining was open to a page about the magical fire-dwelling snake.

“I’m afraid you’re too young, sweetheart. It’s difficult to care for. Perhaps someday.”

Cynthia yawned again but did not protest. She was falling asleep. Virgil hesitated but followed his mother and sister.

“What about the _New Camelot_ article?” Hermione said once she was seated again, her child leaning against her sleepily. “You won’t like this, but I think it has some valid points. Werewolves must take Wolfsbane Potion now, and the Ministry conducts random checks to ensure it.”

Tom shook his head. “They could still miss people. We don’t have the resources to do a test of every known werewolf every night to make sure the potion is in their system.”

“There is no advantage to a werewolf in missing a dose. They have every reason, not just legally, but _personally,_ to follow the regimen.”

“But if they _haven’t_ followed the law—if they miss the Wolfsbane Potion at all—there can be dire consequences. Hermione, there is a substantial part of the wizarding population that wants the right to discriminate by blood status. The entire Isolationist faction, even Orion Black, opposed _that_ nondiscrimination law in the Wizengamot, and the only risk with that is if security protocols aren’t followed with non-magical family members. There is no special risk from the witches and wizards themselves. The same cannot be said of werewolves.”

A few months ago, Tom’s party had allied with the Reformists to pass a sweeping law to protect wizards and witches from blood-status discrimination in employment, housing, public services, and business transactions.

“The problem is that Greyback is still at large,” Tom continued. “He’s out there, he’s threatening children, and people like that Lupin fellow don’t like it. He needs to be apprehended—or removed entirely—and I think it’s going to happen.”

Virgil spoke up. “Is Madeline going to be all right?” he asked his parents. “If the werewolf wants to bite children, wouldn’t he go to Hogwarts?”

Hermione spoke up at once. “Madeline is perfectly safe,” she reassured him. “Greyback might go to Hogwarts if he thought he stood a chance of entering the school, but he doesn’t. There are wards on every entrance and they don’t allow people in unless they know who they are and what they are doing there. Students aren’t allowed to roam the grounds at night… nor are they allowed into the Forbidden Forest, even when there is no full moon.”

“And Professor Slughorn and Professor Dumbledore are there,” he mused to himself.

“Yes,” she said emphatically. “They are. Now, do you think they would let a criminal who wants to attack children near their students?”

Tom cast his gaze down, not wanting to let his son see the skepticism and disdain in his face. Hermione was grateful that he did, because as she remembered, Dumbledore _would_ have allowed precisely that in another world. Severus Snape’s last memories from that other world were still burned into her mind, and Dumbledore—that Dumbledore—would have anticipated Greyback’s presence at the school and commented about it to Snape only so far as it could have affected his own suffering during his death. She hoped he was different this time, but Virgil did not need to know _any_ of this.

“The werewolf is not going to be anywhere close to Hogwarts,” Tom added. “He’s going to be in an entirely different part of Britain… and the Aurors mean to catch him.”

Virgil seemed to accept this.

After Virgil and Cynthia were in bed, Hermione remarked to Tom, “I hope they do catch him. There are people who are now alive today who… will be strongly affected… if he isn’t caught.” It was very strange to think of the Marauder cohort. She had checked: James Potter, Sirius Black, Lily Evans, Peter Pettigrew, Severus Snape, and most critically, Remus Lupin had all been born on schedule. The changes that she had effected to the timeline had not prevented that. Hermione wondered if the birth of a witch or wizard, the existence of a new soul in the world, was such a significant event that it was hard to erase accidentally even by a time-traveler…. In any case, the people whose names—or who, themselves—she knew so well were now toddlers. She really did not want Remus to be turned into a werewolf this time. He would suffer so much, and it would blight his life. Even with Wolfsbane Potion, his prospects would be limited… especially if Tom did not relent on the lycanthropy nondiscrimination law. Catriona Dagworth’s partner was a magical historian, impeccably educated and intelligent. She did not even want to work regularly with people, but she still had had difficulty finding work.

“According to what you told me, that child wouldn’t have been infected for a few more years,” Tom said. “I really do intend for the Aurors to get him this month. Nothing else has been going wrong… no problems abroad for them to handle, no organized crime here. Greyback is the most dangerous problem facing Wizarding Britain, they have dedicated most of their resources to finding him, and I think they’ve got him now. Enough is enough.”

“I hope they have, then.” Hermione could not explain why she thought it, but she had a foreboding feeling in her bones about this operation.

* * *

On the day of the full moon, Hermione, fittingly yet ironically enough, had an important update from Catriona Dagworth herself: The potions research division, in conjunction with the relatively new Dark Arts division, had been developing an experimental potion to cure spattergroit. The principal ingredient was a blood sample from a person who had survived the illness. Because it involved blood magic and was thought to draw from the will power of the survivor and the death of the disease-causing fungus in the blood, the potion was classified as Dark—but Hermione, with her layman’s knowledge of Muggle medicine, realized that it used very similar techniques to vaccinations. That was food for thought. Perhaps Tom was right that the potential of Dark Magic was largely untapped, since it had for so long been heavily restricted and therefore used by people who sought to cause harm….

The public relations officer of the organization had worked out an arrangement with a patient at St. Mungo’s Hospital who had consented to experimental treatment with it and would not mind being the first public test subject. Hermione herself was going to the hospital to meet the wizard, along with Catriona and the Vice President of Research. That day, she had Virgil and Cynthia sent to Tom’s office instead of her own. It would be a good idea for them to see what their father did at work occasionally. He would bring them home that evening.

Hermione regretted the timing of the event. Catriona would be away from her partner during the full moon. “You don’t have to come if you would rather stay with her,” Hermione said privately to her employee that afternoon. “Someone else could substitute.”

Catriona shook her head. “I feel bad for saying it, but I’m actually relieved. The full moon is always awkward and uncomfortable for us. She transforms into a wolf, and even though she keeps her mind, it’s just not a pleasant time. She wants to keep to herself while transformed. I think even now, she’s ashamed of being seen that way—even by me.” She gave Hermione a sad smile. “And after that vile article in the blood-supremacist rag, I just want to be seen in public at these kinds of events. It’s a sort of defiance.”

“That is why you were Sorted into Gryffindor,” Hermione said kindly. “Although no one except Isolationist radicals would think you were hiding. But since you do want to be there, you’re obviously welcome… I just wanted you to know that you didn’t have to if you didn’t want to.”

Catriona smiled again and turned to the supply of potion. The patient was not expected to recover immediately; it would require about a week of treatment, but if this worked, then it would be a breakthrough. The shatter-proof bottle of gleaming red potion sparkled in the light.

“I wish it were a different color,” Catriona remarked. “People are more wary of Dark magic when it _looks_ ‘dodgy’ in some way, and it’ll be widely reported that this potion contains human blood and that is what makes it work… even though it’s far from the top ingredient by volume.”

“That may be true… but I think they’ll adjust. It supposedly doesn’t taste like blood, at least.”

“It tastes floral, oddly enough. I hope our patient doesn’t mind that.”

* * *

Chief Auror Anne-Claire Abbott and her deputy, a male Auror in early middle age named Alastor Moody, stood guard in rural Essex in the tiny wizarding enclave where they expected the werewolf Greyback to make his appearance. Moody shot a cynical look at his boss.

“Watch the bastard turn up somewhere else, after all this.”

Abbott frowned disapprovingly. “The reports indicated an unknown source of magic and sightings of a shabby, sinister-looking wizard _here.”_

“He’s a sly one,” Moody muttered. “And utterly despicable to target children, of course. The rumor has it that he doesn’t just turn them—he tries to recruit them into his ‘pack’ and….” He trailed off, the implication apparently too appalling even for a seasoned Auror to voice.

“They don’t have to turn to the individual who victimized them for ‘protection’ now that we have the Wolfsbane Potion.”

Moody forked an eye at Abbott. “Which is exactly why he’s so desperate.”

“Well, his reign of terror ends tonight, one way or another.”

Moody’s sharp gaze suddenly darted away from Abbott and toward a distant cottage silhouetted by the deep blue of the moonlit sky. “What in the hell—who are those people? They’re _outside!”_

Abbott’s gaze shot toward the cottage. Sure enough, two figures—one tall and one rather short—were moving about in the darkness, illuminated by a single lantern that the taller figure was holding. In his other hand, he held a long object that was clearly a wand.

The two Aurors, along with all their subordinates, prepared to Apparate to the edge of the property and tell the wizard and his child to get indoors. As they vanished into the ether of Apparition in a series of pops, they did not see a third figure, a bestial figure, emerge from the grove of trees and bound toward the people.

* * *

The magical research reporter at the _Daily Prophet_ snapped a final moving photograph of the Advance Organization’s president, vice president of research, Potions director, and Controlled Dark Arts director as the Potions director proudly held a bottle of glistening red potion. The spattergroit patient—a _cerebrumous_ spattergroit patient, to boot, located in the permanent resident ward for memory damage from the disease—was not identified, nor was the actual administration of the potion photographed, for privacy reasons.

“The theory is that seven days’ doses of this potion will cure the disease,” Hermione explained to the reporter.

“Are there Arithmantic reasons for that specific number?” the reporter asked.

Hermione suppressed a smile that only she would understand. “Yes, that is part of the theoretical basis.”

“The patient suffered from memory loss. Do you think that he’ll recover that part?”

Hermione turned to her employees. Catriona spoke up. “We are not sure how much recovery of memory there will be, but this potion was made with a blood sample from someone who did not have that form of the disease—whose brain showed resiliency to it—so we believe that there will be _some_ positive effect on our patient’s brain because of that residual magic.”

“And if this cure could be manufactured on a grand scale,” the reporter continued, “it won’t require the donation of _hazardous_ amounts of blood, will it?”

“Certainly not,” Hermione said firmly. “We would not consider it if there were ethical concerns such as that. A very small amount of blood, a vial at most, can be increased to some degree—and with every patient who is cured, there is a new source, provided that that person permits a small amount of blood to be taken. Although we do encourage voluntary donation if the cure works as we expect, this hospital has stringent guidelines and will not do such a thing without the written and magically sealed permission of a patient.”

The reporter was taking this down when a flurry of activity suddenly disrupted the stolid hospital admissions room. A trio of bloodied stretchers, two with adults and one with a child, were wheeled past the bewildered Advance Organization and _Daily Prophet_ personnel. For a fraction of a second, Hermione wondered what disaster had befallen, and then a horrible fear entered her mind when Alastor Moody and Tom appeared, looking grim and miserable. Tom met Hermione’s eyes and gave her a pointed look that indicated that he wanted to speak to her in private.

“Excuse me,” Hermione said as politely as she could manage to the reporter. “My husband needs to speak with me. My vice president and directors can take any additional questions you may have, I’m certain.” She flashed a smile on her face as she left the group.

An employee of the hospital ushered the Minister, Hermione, and the Auror into a small private room that—based on how it was outfitted—appeared to be normally used for grieving, contemplation, or prayer. Tom locked the door, cast Muffliato, and looked to Moody to explain.

Hermione swallowed hard. Despite the fact that she had spent more of her life in this time than in her old, it was still odd to interact with people that she would have known in a different capacity in the alternate timeline. Moody had not lost his eye and therefore was not known as “Mad-Eye”; Hermione wondered if that would happen in this timeline. It very well might not. For his sake, she hoped it didn’t.

“Mrs. Riddle,” Moody began gruffly, “I have good news and bad news. The Minister has been told already.”

Hermione held up her hand. “Excuse me for a moment, Auror Moody.” She turned to Tom. “Where are Virgil and Cynthia?”

“I left them at the Rosiers’ when I got the message about the Greyback raid,” Tom said grimly. “They will learn about this later, but they don’t need to hear this while it’s ongoing.”

“All right.” She turned to Moody again. “Please continue.”

“Well. The good news is that we successfully removed Greyback.”

“‘Removed’?” Hermione asked. “Alive or dead?”

“Dead, I’m afraid. My boss and I hoped to take him alive, to question him….”

“Where is your boss?” Hermione asked, suddenly noting the fact that Chief Auror Abbott was not giving the report. A fear entered her mind as she recalled the three bloody stretchers….

Moody grimaced. “She was on one of those stretchers.”

Hermione closed her eyes. She had known Chief Auror Abbott. She had admired the woman greatly, as a witch who worked for a wizard widely acknowledged to be appealing and had not a care in the world for that fact, because her own integrity—her utter dedication to her Auror duties—was impeccable. In fact, rumor around the Ministry was that Abbott and the Head of the Department of Mysteries, Griffith Diggory, were close to being an item. And now—

“So Greyback attacked her,” Hermione said unhappily.

Moody nodded. “There was an _idiot_ wizard walking with his little toddler son in their backyard, and Greyback pounced on the sprog. We saw them walking around from a distance, but the attack happened while we were Apparating to their property. She intervened and he attacked her. I had no choice but to kill him. His filthy jaws were locked onto her wrist.”

A horrible suspicion entered Hermione’s mind. “What wizard? Who were they?”

“Some family named Lupin. The father and the child were both attacked.”

Hermione sank to the floor, burying her head in her hands. _I failed,_ she thought miserably. _I knew what could happen, I had the power to prevent it, and Remus still got infected with lycanthropy._

Moody glanced at Tom uneasily. “Is she going to be all right?”

Tom sighed. “She’s very sensitive about harm done to children. So am I, for that matter.” He knew the truth, but it would not do to tell Moody.

Hermione raised her head and gazed wearily at the Auror. “Are they all going to live, at least?” she croaked.

“Should. The wizard was pretty bloodied, and he’ll be scarred… but there’s something else you should know, Mrs. Riddle. The Minister does know.”

Hermione rose to her feet wobbily.

“I… don’t actually know if Auror Abbott will be a werewolf.”

“But Greyback bit her while he was transformed. How can there be any doubt?”

“She was… cutting off her own hand as I killed him,” Moody said grimly. “Actually, more than hand. She cut off her forearm up to the elbow with a violent curse. I had no idea she knew that sort of Dark magic.”

Hermione blanched. _What a horrific gamble,_ she thought. _If it works, then she will have one human hand for the rest of her life, since it was a Dark curse. If it doesn’t work, she’ll be a werewolf, but she will still be missing a hand._

“And… the Lupins?” she asked painfully. “They’re expected to recover? From the wounds, at least?”

Moody nodded. “For whatever it’s worth. Shame about the kid. I hope it doesn’t cause problems, since the old man was the one who raised hell in that town hall recently.” He turned to Tom. “Minister, you must realize that I’m not interested in politics, but it would offend me if _certain_ people claimed that the Aurors—working in the Office of the Minister—let the Lupins be attacked on purpose.”

“It would offend me too,” Tom managed, “and on your behalf. You are professionals.”

Moody nodded. “If it comes up, I will explain exactly what happened, and once she is recovered, I’m sure my boss will too.”

“For however much longer she remains your boss,” Tom said grimly. “I don’t know how well the public would react to a werewolf as Chief Auror, even with the Wolfsbane Potion. Not well, I’m guessing,” he said with heavy irony.

“She may not be a werewolf. She cast a Dark curse based on the one you invented, the healing spell. It might have worked.”

Hermione sighed. What a disaster this had been. The one event that she had most hoped to change—other than the rise of Voldemort and events directly connected to it, such as the deaths of the Potters and other victims of the Death Eaters—had been Fenrir Greyback’s attack on Remus Lupin. She had succeeded at changing Tom’s destiny, but she had not changed Remus’s.

* * *

Hermione and Tom Apparated to the Rosiers’ to pick up Virgil and Cynthia, and then the family went home. The children—Virgil especially, since he was older—were very upset. Even though they did not understand everything that had happened, they understood that a werewolf had attacked a little boy. Even four-year-old Cynthia understood that, and it was traumatizing for her— _perhaps especially for a child who likes learning about magical creatures,_ Hermione thought unhappily. She hoped her daughter’s interest in Magizoology would not disappear over this.

She put them to bed, but not before reassuring them that their older sister was safe and sound at Hogwarts and that the werewolf who had targeted children was finally dead. This seemed to relieve them to some extent. She left the magical nightlights on for them and descended the stairs to join Tom in the master bedroom.

“Hermione,” he said with more tenderness and kindness than she had heard in a while, “I know this upsets you, but it isn’t your fault. You must not blame yourself.”

Hermione sighed. “I know… but it does upset me. Being a werewolf blighted Remus Lupin’s life in the other timeline. I’m terrified that it will now too.”

“Things are different, though. He will take the Wolfsbane Potion, which means that his transformations won’t be painful and he won’t be a danger to others… nor will his father.” Tom cocked his head at her. “Was his father infected too?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, that’s also different, then. He won’t grow up as the only werewolf he knows. And frankly,” he said with a hint of savageness in his voice, “perhaps elder Lupin will be changed for the better now.”

Hermione shook her head. “This is a terrible price to pay.”

Tom could not disagree.

* * *

After a week at St. Mungo’s, the Healers discharged the final victims of Fenrir Greyback. Lyall and Remus Lupin were infected with lycanthropy, but were duly registered as werewolves—much to the elder’s dismay, though Hermione hoped that would lessen in time—and sent home with a supply of Catriona Dagworth’s safe formula of Wolfsbane Potion. At the family’s request, the attack would be kept very quiet in the press. The only reporting would be that the scourge was at last killed—though an Auror tragically was attacked in the course of the operation.

Anne-Claire Abbott was _not_ infected, much to Hermione’s surprise—and, if they were honest, to Tom’s and Alastor Moody’s as well. When she had cast the Dark curse that tore through and cauterized her arm at the elbow, she had isolated the infection before it had spread too far. The Healers and medi-magic researchers who examined the severed limb urged the media that this method was _not_ infallible or recommended, because time was of the essence—the infection spread through the blood, and Abbott had simply been quick enough to amputate the infected part before it could spread too far—but that, in this case, her “battlefield amputation” had been effective at preventing lycanthropy infection in her body.

She had resigned her post upon being discharged from the hospital, turning over her position as Chief Auror to Alastor Moody.

“You are welcome to remain if you wish,” Tom had urged her, but she had been adamant.

“I will stay as an Auror,” she said, “but the Chief Auror should be someone whose fighting capability isn’t compromised. I can get an artificial forearm, but it won’t be as fast as my natural one. Even if it wasn’t my wand hand, it’s still a handicap. Alastor should be the head of the division. He’ll be a fine one.”

Tom knew already from Hermione’s narratives of the alternate universe that that was true indeed.

* * *

That night, in bed, Hermione was still thinking aloud about what had transpired. Tom understood that these events had special significance to her due to the fact that she would have known so many of these people, and their friends—and children—in other capacities, so he let her talk it out.

“I still wish he had not been infected,” she said. “He’ll suffer from discrimination—but hopefully it won’t be as bad, now that a true menace like Greyback is dead and no longer giving all werewolves a bad name, and people like Catriona’s partner Lila are living normal lives, and the Wolfsbane Potion exists. And I suppose at least this means that some things will play out similarly. Remus’s friends would have become Animagi in order to spend full moons with him as animals. He’ll still be a wolf, so maybe there will still be a motivation. A motivation without the associated danger.” She rubbed her eyes tiredly. “At least they’ll be friends. _That_ will be unchanged. They’ll still be the Marauders. It is very important to me that my old friends be born… even if I won’t be in their lives as a friend this time.”

Tom did not respond to that. Hermione might have assumed that he had lapsed into the sort of silence that fell when one did not need to respond, but this felt different. There was something he was not saying, something important. “Tom?” she asked.

He rubbed his own eyes. “Hermione, unless there is some temporal magic that acts as a ‘master of fate’ to prevent it, ‘you’ will be born in 1979.”

Hermione looked queasy. “That can’t happen,” she burst out. “It can’t! ‘She’ would be named Granger, but she’d look just like me, and I’m still too well-known for—”

He took her in his arms and held her just far enough apart from himself that they could look each other in the eye. “I agree completely,” he said. “I don’t want there to be another ‘you’ out there. _You_ are the only Hermione I want. I have thought about this for a long time, Hermione, but I was waiting for the right time to ask you—and I think this is it.”

She waited for him to say, though she had an inkling that she knew the basic substance.

“It’s still many years away… but in late 1978 and early 1979, I could go to your parents’ home in secret… and slip them ‘the potion’ just to make sure. If you want me to.”

He was asking her permission. This was, needless to say, an immense change, and a request of such a personal nature that he had _better_ ask her—but he had. He had done so without prompting. He had not even suggested it to her until now.

She thought of her parents wistfully. They would not know her now, not at all—but that had been her decision, all the way back in alternate 1997. _She_ had erased their memories of her. She had made the choice herself to end the relationship—for all she had known at the time, permanently. Was there any reality in which they could have been reconciled? If they had won the war without the horrific losses that necessitated Fawkes’s intervention that dark day, she might, perhaps, have been able to retrieve them and restore some of their memories—but could they ever have forgiven her for what she had done? If _she_ had been a non-magical person and her own child had altered her memory like that without her knowledge or consent, she would have found it extremely difficult to forgive.

Her parents had been lost to her by her own hand. She might as well let go now. She had a family now, wonderful children and a partner whom she never would have imagined as such until some strange events transpired in 1944 and 1945 to make him incalculably precious to her.  This was her family now.  Her blood parents might have another child. Perhaps that child would even be a wizard or witch—a brother or sister in another universe.

Harry would be born. His father would be an Animagus, as would his godfather. Perhaps even his mother would, with extra years to learn the skill. Remus would become a wolf with a mostly human mind on the full moon and would not menace Severus Snape at Sirius Black’s immature behest. _I wonder now if Lily Evans will choose James Potter at all,_ she thought anxiously—but then she remembered the overall tone of the memories of Severus Snape’s that she had viewed years ago. Lily had been friends with Snape, but had not been attracted to him. That would play out unchanged.

She turned to Tom and nodded. “It’s for the best.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Lupin back story is another thing I have some issues with. I don’t like the idea of a parent’s bigotry being punished by the child, and child alone, being infected with a terrible condition… and really, of all the forms of bigotry in the canonical Potterverse, prejudice against werewolves before the development of Wolfsbane Potion is the most readily justifiable kind. Lycanthropy is _dangerous,_ and the pre-Wolfsbane viewpoint in canon that werewolves can be safely contained is resoundingly proven false by the escapades of the Marauders and particularly the shabby trick they play on Snape. In this AU, I’ve made the situation rather different: Lycanthropy can be safely managed if werewolves take their potion, which Tom’s law requires (and the potion isn’t toxic anymore), so Lupin Sr.’s viewpoint is not defensible.
> 
> I considered not having Remus infected in this AU, but I think that would endanger too many relationships that ultimately lead to Harry’s existence. Hermione would angst about it either way.
> 
> **ETA:** I completely forgot that I created portraits of Madeline, Virgil, and Cynthia. They are not my own drawings, but were created in this [Spooky Doll Creator](http://www.dolldivine.com/spooky-doll-creator.php). Virgil's was edited slightly to look more like a boy.


	32. Conspirators

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom and Hermione enjoy a nice night out as a couple after a major Wizengamot vote for which they are on opposite sides—and it helps them to have an important epiphany about that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, look what rose from the near-dead! I recently was bitten by the bug to write something new for this couple, and Valentine’s Day is approaching, so what better occasion?
> 
> There are… well… some real-world inspirations in this. Those who follow political news will see what I mean. However, I wouldn’t say it’s allegory at all, because it builds strongly on the important events in previous chapters of this fic, actually tying together a lot of the discrete threads that formerly only got quick allusions in the story after their plot arcs were completed. Thus, this is another plot development that is about _this story_ and _this AU_ first and foremost, at least in my opinion. :)
> 
> And finally… whoa. Blame wine and “mood music” for this, but I think the end of this chapter warrants a rating upgrade! Enjoy!

_February 14, 1963._

Tom considered what to do for Valentine’s Day. Hermione was unlike many people in that she would not take severe offense if the day passed without observance. She knew what he felt for her. In fact, Tom thought wryly, she would probably be more inclined to _distrust_ a splashy gesture from him—not to lose faith in his affections, but to wonder if he had some additional, self-centered motive behind it. He supposed that he was partly to blame if she reacted that way; he had admitted on previous occasions that he had no qualms about seizing professional advantage from actions that were primarily about his marriage or family if there _was_ some professional benefit to be had. He did not see anything wrong with it; it did not diminish the sincerity of his personal, private motives, but it was sound to seize any benefits on offer.

And Hermione herself was more likely than he was to be so absorbed in her work that she forgot about Valentine’s Day, he thought. He did not _have_ to do something special, but he wanted to.

It would also serve a practical purpose that hopefully would reduce his anxiety level—and hers. Hermione probably experienced less stress than he did, since her main job now consisted of managing the wizarding museum, but a sprawling international criminal investigation that a division of the Aurors had begun would potentially touch her in the near future as a witness. And, too, a recent Wizengamot vote had driven a bit of a wedge between them, which he wanted to heal. He and Hermione had voted differently on the question of whether to permit Squibs to hold seats on the Wizengamot, and the vote had narrowly passed.

It wasn’t even that Tom had wanted the proposal to fail because he despised the substance of it. Although he thought—and still did—that the Wizengamot was meant to be for witches and wizards, he did not care _that_ much if a Squib or two were seated. The main problems he had were political—and personal. The very close vote and possible political consequences had made it uncomfortable to discuss with Hermione. Tom rather resented that politicians on the Wizengamot had managed to create space between them, and he was not going to let it persist.

Nobby Leach, a Reformist recently awarded a seat on the Wizengamot, had called for the vote. The proposal had divided all three parties—and although they were now called “parties” rather than “factions,” they did not have their own Gringotts accounts or formal structures. Most of the Wizengamot preferred a certain degree of independence that would be compromised if they were beholden to party money and obligated to vote as a party, which led to divided votes at times. However, they certainly had _informal_ leaders. Tom naturally headed his own party, Orion Black had taken up the mantle for the Isolationists, and Septimus Weasley still spoke for the Reformists—though Tom suspected that this Leach was angling to replace him in that role. He did not like that idea one bit. Weasley he could handle, but Hermione had told him that Leach would have been the first Muggle-born Minister for Magic in the alternate timeline. That was… concerning. There was no immediate threat; the Reformists did not have anything close to the numbers to depose Tom. However, he did not want to have to rely on Isolationists to hold his office. They would back him over a Muggle-born Reformist, but that would obligate him to them. Currently he had enough crossover support from the Isolationist _and_ Reformist parties that neither could bully him.

Leach was certainly ambitious—and canny, too. He had made sure to introduce his proposal in the most generic terms possible, as simply a law to allow Squibs to serve on the body, with no details about the number of seats Squibs could hold, no conditions about the Squibs themselves, and no _requirement_ to seat any Squibs. That vague proposal had produced some interesting fault lines. A few of the Isolationists had not been averse to a single seat for a Squib as long as the person was from a pureblood family and was barred from voting on matters that did not explicitly involve Squibs. The Wizarding Nationalists had split down the middle, generally dividing between those who held that magic itself was crucial and those who held that magical ancestry gave one full rights in the wizarding world. Most of the Reformists did support Leach’s proposal, but a few holdouts also took the view that it privileged “magical blood.” For them, though, that was a reason to _oppose_ it.

Tom had a couple of tentative plans to try to prevent Leach from posing an upstart threat to him. The first was to emphasize the eventual findings of the Aurors’ investigation, which he expected would reflect extremely well on his government, his major decisions as Minister, and especially his placement of the Aurors under the Office of the Minister, where they were freed to examine challenging cases rather than pursuing low-level offenders. The other plan… loath as he was to admit it… was to not act like a sore loser, but to take ownership of Leach’s Squib law and devise details for its implementation that satisfied as many Wizengamot members as possible. It would look magnanimous and would give _him_ a great deal of credit for the execution of the law, rather than deferring it to whatever harebrained ideas the Reformists might devise. He would need to ask Hermione for her ideas for this, which meant that they would have to become comfortable talking about it. What better occasion than a special dinner as a couple?

Tom reflected wryly that this dinner was indeed going to be another instance of getting professional benefits out of an action that he took primarily for personal reasons. He wanted to do something special for Hermione and bridge the gap that had opened up between them lately. But he also wanted to talk policy with her.

He considered his options. The Leaky Cauldron was absolutely out of the question; never highbrow, that tavern had still taken a very disreputable turn recently. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement had even issued a notice advising against using it to enter Diagon Alley. The Serpents’ Chalice was principally a drinking establishment, and it was strongly associated with politics. Although Tom meant to discuss that subject with Hermione, the Chalice still did not seem like a proper venue for a couple’s night out. The Isle of Apples was a nice restaurant in the wizarding district, of course. It was not _upscale,_ at least not in the way that many Muggle restaurants in London were, but there was not enough of a market for a true upscale restaurant for witches and wizards. The well-to-do hosted their own private dinner parties at home. Wizarding couples just did not seem to dine out for romantic occasions that much, certainly not often enough to support a business that catered to them. It was unfortunate, but so it was. The Isle of Apples it was, then. _At least I can request a private table,_ he thought. He got up from his chair and walked to his office Floo to make his reservation. Hermione would be pleasantly surprised.

* * *

That evening, Tom went to the child care center for employees of the Ministry—another of Hermione’s ideas that he had implemented—and got Virgil and Cynthia out. His young daughter was visibly sleepy. For half a second Tom resisted the thought that entered his head— _what if someone looks down on me for this?_ —but then he decided that he did not care about the good opinion of anyone who would. He scooped her up in his arms and held her close to his chest. Her brown curls, very much like her mother’s, tumbled over his coat sleeve. She yawned and curled against him. Virgil took hold of his father’s arm and gazed outward, his face deliberately sedate and serious. Tom stifled a chuckle; even the child who was intellectual enough that the diadem of Ravenclaw called out to him wanted to impress others.

He Apparated home with them. To his surprise, he arrived home before Hermione did. If he and Hermione really were going to have dinner at a restaurant, the children would have to eat first. Fortunately, there were leftovers from the night before, carefully preserved with charms, which Tom removed from the pantry and warmed. He magically sliced some apples and oranges and sent the entire works flying toward the table in the family dining room.

Virgil’s brow furrowed for a moment, but he quickly figured out what was likely going on. Cynthia was more confused. “Daddy? Are you going to eat?”

He ushered them to their chairs. “I’m going to eat later. Your mother and I are going out.”

The little girl’s face crumpled in upset and then outrage. She prepared to object loudly when her brother, much to Tom’s relief, defused the situation. “It’s _Valentine’s Day,_ Cynthia,” Virgil explained. “That means Mum and Dad are supposed to go out to eat.” He smiled at his sister. “Remember how the Ministry had red cupcakes? Mum and Dad haven’t had their Valentine’s Day yet, though, so they need to.”

She considered this, finally nodding in resignation, an adorable scowl on her face. Pleased, Tom sat back in his chair and waited for Hermione to arrive. The distinctive sound of Apparition told him that she was home.

Cynthia nearly burst out of her chair when Hermione entered the room. “Guess what?” she exclaimed. “Guess what?”

Hermione raised her eyebrows at Tom.

“Daddy wants to take you out to eat!” the little girl proclaimed exultantly, delighted at having delivered this important news first. Virgil groaned, being more sensitive. He had been quite sure that their father had wanted to tell their mother himself.

Although Virgil was right, Tom instantly smiled, because it did not really matter that his daughter had blurted it out. “It’s true,” he said. “I have a reservation for us. And _they_ know that they should get to bed on time.”

Virgil nodded at once. “I can handle everything,” he boasted.

“Yes, you probably can,” Hermione agreed idly. She turned to her daughter, who was pouting. “He is in charge until we return. Both of you know to get baths and stay out of trouble.” She glanced at Tom again, smiling. “I confess, I had almost forgot what day it was. I’ll need a few minutes to freshen up.”

Tom noticed that she had a small stack of periodicals in her arms. Today must have been a delivery day for several of the publications to which she subscribed. Yes—this was the day that the three partisan weeklies went out. He had not read the two opposition magazines yet; he would catch up on that tomorrow morning. As she bent down to hug the children and then headed upstairs to their bedroom, he thought about telling her she did not need to bring politics to dinner… but then he reflected on what their conversation would include. Perhaps it made sense.

Hermione reemerged shortly, her hair tamed and her face glowing. She did not have the periodicals—but she _did_ have her beaded bag, the very one that she had used for twenty years. Perhaps the magazines were inside it. She gave final instructions to Virgil and Cynthia to behave themselves before turning to Tom and saying in a low voice, “Lock your study if you are leaving… _you know…_ here.”

Tom scowled for a fraction of a second. He really wished that she would not speak of it in such a way. Their family owed its existence to the diary, for one. In addition, the children still had their father, and she had her husband, because of it, and she knew _all_ of that. _Still,_ he thought, _it’s fair of her to expect the study to be locked if the children are here by themselves._ “I _am_ leaving it here,” he said, “and the door is locked.”

She was relieved. “Good,” she said, squeezing his hand. “They’re so curious… and if Madeline were here, she would take an interest in it too.” She smiled as they walked down the first-floor hallway of their home. “I had a letter from her today. She has a game this Saturday, and it’ll be the first one she has the chance to play now that the seventh-year Chaser has joined the Wasps.”

“I hope that she continues to focus on her studies and doesn’t go Quidditch-mad,” Tom grumbled. “They are all very intelligent.”

“I don’t think there is any danger that she will neglect her studies.”

They reached the front door. Tom politely opened it for her, stepped outside after her, and pulled it shut, locking it behind them just before they Apparated together to Diagon Alley.

* * *

“Welcome, Minister and Mrs. Riddle,” the maitre d’ said as he showed the couple to the private nook that Tom had reserved. Despite being a fairly generic restaurant, the Isle of Apples was the place to be for couples tonight. Several people craned their heads or gazed upon Tom and Hermione in surprise as the pair made their way to the back of the restaurant.

They were shown to a quieter, dimmer section on the upper level. The maitre d’ pulled back a gauzy curtain to reveal a small alcove just large enough for a table and chairs for two. “This is a privacy curtain,” he explained. “No one can hear or see you from the outside! Just the thing for a couple of your stature to enjoy this lovely evening.”

Tom was smugly pleased as he and Hermione took their seats. They ordered quickly, being quite familiar with the menu. As soon as they were alone, Tom noted that the curtain muffled all sounds from outside when closed.

“Hermione,” he said at once, “I wanted to do this tonight. We have been a bit strained since the Wizengamot vote, and it’s not right. It’s just a difference of opinion, nothing that should come between us.” He gazed at her with his dark eyes wide.

In that moment, Tom looked so innocent and sincere to Hermione that she wanted to lean across the table and kiss him. She supposed that she could, if the curtain really did offer visual privacy, but he wanted to talk right now, so physical affections could wait a bit. She smiled at him instead. “I agree,” she said warmly, “and I’m so glad you remembered. I didn’t,” she said with a chuckle. The smile momentarily faded. “I couldn’t think of much today after what I read….”

“What do you mean?”

“Let’s discuss that later,” she urged. She did mean to talk about it, but it would distract and probably upset him. “You were talking about the Wizengamot vote?”

“Ah. Yes.” He sipped his wine. “Well… here is the situation. You know how I voted and why. Nonetheless… I don’t hate the idea of a Squib or two on the Wizengamot. We just want to do it right—do it responsibly—and not allow that ambitious Reformist Leach to make it his own policy, on his terms, or the terms of the people he surrounds himself with.” He stared at her. “Since you voted for it, I wondered…. What ideas did you have in mind for implementing it? How do you think it should be done?”

Hermione considered his question. She believed him when he said he did not hate the idea, and she definitely believed that he did not want Leach to get credit for _everything_ associated with the new policy. That meant that what Tom really wanted from her were ideas for implementing the new law that would not appear to be blatantly Reformist in nature. Half of his own party had voted for this, and he wanted to know what she—as the one person in that half, or in the Wizengamot at all, whom he truly trusted—thought that half of the party had in mind.

She was glad that he was discussing this with her. Although she had not liked the slight distance that had opened up between them after this vote, she was not going to compromise her views on a topic like this one to please him, nor did she expect him to compromise his for her. But he was responding to the vote in a normal, proper way—albeit the way of a manipulative schemer. That was a good thing.

“I actually don’t have a problem with restricting it to Squibs who have a long-standing connection to the wizarding world,” she began thoughtfully. “I completely understand your perspective about not wanting outsiders to be able to decide laws for witches and wizards.”

Tom noted that. It sounded to him as if she might even be amenable to the Isolationist suggestion of limiting Squibs to voting on matters that explicitly affected Squibs themselves… but he would first find out what she meant by this present statement. “A long-standing connection… like a marriage to a witch or wizard?” he asked.

“A marriage… being a parent of a witch or wizard… or even just being employed in a wizarding institution or business,” she said.

“For a certain number of years,” he pressed.

She thought about that. “All right. Whatever their connection is, it must be a long-standing one of a number of years.” She considered. “A decade?”

“That sounds all right to me. I’ll propose that.” He decided to ask the question that had occurred to him a minute ago. “Hermione, what do you think of the Isolationist idea of limiting these Squibs’ voting rights to matters that explicitly involve their own kind? I don’t particularly like the idea of people who _cannot do magic_ potentially being the definitive votes on laws that only affect us. Even if they do have magical ancestors and a connection to the community, they can’t do magic. Why should they get to choose what laws govern _us?_ Why should there even be a chance of that?”

She considered. “Tom, I do see your point, but I’m not sure it’s clear what does and does not ‘affect Squibs.’ There could be an attenuated effect… an indirect one… even an inadvertent one.”

“That is a slippery slope,” he said, trying to keep dismissal out of his voice when talking with his wife. “That could even be said about _Muggles._ You can’t anticipate every possible effect.”

“That could lead to laws that are deliberately crafted to affect Squibs—negatively—but that aren’t explicitly stated to do so, so they don’t have the right to vote on them.”

Tom sat back in his chair and thought about that, In truth, he did not care that much about the hypothetical she described. In his ideal world, there would be no more Squibs. If pureblood families would stop marrying their own close relatives, there would be no more Squibs who lacked magic due to genetic problems from consanguinity. And if all the non-magical family members of Muggle-borns—the other type of Squib—married witches, wizards, or each other, rather than true Muggles, then eventually everyone with wizarding blood would _be_ a witch or wizard.

But Tom did not live in this ideal world, and in the world that existed, there were Squibs of both types and would be for the foreseeable future. “Well…” he mused. “In that case, Squibs on the Wizengamot _would_ have to have the same rights as everyone else to call for reviews of existing laws… or to propose new laws to stop the problem, if they think there is a problem of that sort. And anything they proposed to address ‘accidental’ effects of other laws would by definition affect Squibs, so there is the answer.”

Hermione considered that before nodding. “I could support that.”

“And if you can support it, then so would the rest of your half of our party,” he said with a smirk. “The usual suspects in the other two parties, the ones who frequently cross over to back me, will probably back this too.”

She agreed.

“Now,” he said, “what did you read in the partisan weeklies that distracted you so today?”

Hermione sighed. She hoped he had forgot about that. This was supposed to be their Valentine’s dinner as a couple. But he wanted to talk about politics as well, and so far, it had been a good, productive discussion. She was glad they had talked reasonably about the Squib vote. But this… discussion of this topic was not likely to end on such a positive note.

She reached into her beaded bag and withdrew the copy of this week’s _Sentry,_ the Isolationist weekly edited and partly written by Vasile Yaxley. Without a word, she placed the magazine on the table, sliding it in front of him next to his plate. The front-cover article, with an accompanying caricature of an Auror dressed up like a Puritan-era Muggle witch-hunter, was “The Political Prosecution of Our Movement.”

Tom scowled deeply. In truth, this was not a total surprise to him, but it did complicate things.

He gazed at the curtain that separated Hermione and him from the other diners on this floor. Considering for a moment, he flicked his wand at it. A shimmer of red light flowed down the curtain and then disappeared. “The Aurors’ investigation is classified,” he said brusquely. “Whatever security the restaurant has is not good enough.”

“Of course,” she agreed. She leaned forward across the table. “Tom, I’ve been ordered to testify about the trip to Albania next week.”

He nodded. “That does not surprise me. Kona himself is a witness for the trafficking of magical children, _naturally,”_ he sneered with contempt, “but it makes sense that they would want to hear from someone who uncovered it first, not just someone they pressured into making a deal.” He gazed at the issue of _The Sentry._ “That pile of thestral waste, though…. Something needs to be done. Yaxley is trying to get people to doubt the Aurors because they are likely to catch Malfoy.”

Late last year, Vincent Rosier had come to Tom with concerns about his uncle, Florian Rosier. The man had already heavily implied to his nephew that he had known about the murder conspiracy in the Muggle Soviet Union of a few years ago, but Tom had declined to prosecute after he and Hermione successfully thwarted the criminal activity in Russia and Ukraine. However, from what Vincent had told Tom, his uncle might be involved in something else now—and _actively_ involved, not just aware of what others were doing. Florian Rosier had returned to France very abruptly and unexpectedly, surrendering headship of the Rosier family to Vincent—a wizard with whom he disagreed politically, and whom he himself had cut off a few years ago. It had blindsided Vincent, who had not had any reconciliation with his blood-purist uncle that would have presaged the act. Florian had alluded to a pivotal role in French wizarding politics, and had implied that his “contacts in the East” were funding this endeavor.

Tom and Hermione had agreed that everything about Florian Rosier’s intended return to France was suspicious, and Tom had directed an Auror to investigate it. The wizard had presented him with indications that Rosier’s actions hinted at something much bigger, so Tom then created a formal division dedicated to white-collar crime, the Office for Financial Crimes and Corruption. Former Chief Auror Abbott and others with an aptitude for this type of work, largely Slytherins and Ravenclaws, had joined. Tom had been uneasy about creating such an office at first, but he remembered that his dealings two decades ago with Grindelwald were known to no one except himself, Grindelwald, and Hermione—and the information was secured under the Fidelius Charm. As for the rest of his career, Tom had little to worry about. He certainly used intimidation, political dirty tricks, blackmail, and even occasional Imperius Curses or Memory Charms to get his way, but he was not financially corrupt. Bribery was a weakness for the one offering money just as much as the one accepting it, Tom felt, and he himself certainly was not financially beholden or subject to extortion. Now, he was certain that he had done the correct thing in forming the new Auror division. The investigation had only begun two months ago, but its early findings hinted at an explosive international conspiracy involving radical blood-purity supporters throughout Britain, Europe, and Russia, funded in part by wizarding organized crime based in the Eastern bloc. The crime families made their money by trafficking in black-market potions ingredients, endangered magical species, and even magical children. It was starting to look very much as if all the major events of Tom’s tenure as Minister—the Soviet crisis, the discovery of Aleksander Kona’s child trafficking, the coordinated attack by Malfoy and Florian Rosier via the _Prophet,_ even the brief and unofficial campaign of Caspar Crouch to replace Tom—were connected to this conspiracy, and the figures involved had not yet given up.

Hermione sighed, bringing Tom out of his reverie. “Malfoy is not going to go down without a fight. I’m absolutely certain that he is the one _directing_ the attacks. He and Vasile Yaxley are old pals. Remember the campaign to attack us after we went to the Soviet Union, when Yaxley still worked at the _Daily Prophet?”_

Tom certainly remembered. “He knows he is going to Azkaban if this investigation implicates him.”

“And his movement’s grand goals to subvert the wizarding governments of France, Germany, and this country will amount to nothing,” she said.

That, indeed, was where the Aurors suspected the conspirators’ goals tended. The three allies, all of whom had wizarding heads of government opposed to the radical blood-purity movement (even though these leaders differed on other topics), appeared to be the top targets for the criminals. Tom was quite certain that Abraxas Malfoy’s previous attempts to undermine him were part of this plan.

“Florian Rosier almost certainly went back to France to interfere with French politics on behalf of organized crime and radicals in the Soviet bloc, the same ones who arranged for Muggles to murder witches and wizards,” he growled. “It’s just a matter of proving it. He’s a fool. It won’t be long before the Aurors catch _him._ All they likely need to do is slip him a stiff drink! But Malfoy is different, I agree.” He gazed at _The Sentry._ “What does that rag say?”

Hermione glowered. “It’s not coherent, but that probably won’t matter to its readers. Essentially, Yaxley is claiming that the Aurors are biased because you moved them from the Department of Law Enforcement to the Office of the Minister—”

Tom scoffed.

“—that the operation in Russia was not what you claimed it was, but was instead an effort to remove Igor Karkaroff due to his political beliefs….” She paused, gazing at him wryly.

“Thank you _so, so much,_ Lovegood,” Tom snarled. The Lovegoods had begun that conspiracy theory after the events in the Soviet bloc in 1958, and although the _Quibbler_ had not pushed it again after Tom’s press conference explaining what had really happened, it was clearly useful for the likes of Yaxley and Malfoy that someone unaligned with their movement had proposed it first.

“…That Caspar Crouch is cooperating with the probe because he blames poor, poor Malfoy for his own failure and wants revenge on him,” Hermione continued sarcastically.

“Crouch was damned lucky that he _wasn’t_ successful,” Tom remarked, “and I am not referring to anything I might have done to him.”

Hermione lowered her voice even though they were behind Tom’s security charm. “Are you implying what I think you are?”

“They were using him. I don’t like him, but he was a tool for Malfoy. Do you really think they would have let him live if he had taken over my job? Especially if they could make it look like their enemies had done it?”

Hermione gaped at her husband. “Do you have proof of that? If this is something the Aurors have found, I don’t think I should have heard it—I still have to testify about Kona—”

“It’s only my own guess,” he admitted, “but I expect they’ll find it to be the case. Is that it, then? The investigation is political because I moved the Aurors, Crouch is taking revenge on ‘poor’ Malfoy, and the _Quibbler_ was right all along that our operation in St. Petersburg was a coup?” Scorn dripped from his words.

Hermione smiled darkly. “Well, also that the Healers lied about Auror Abbott’s not being infected in the Greyback raid, and that we’re blackmailing her with this information—and her beau Griffith Diggory in the Department of Mysteries, too, though what that department has to do with it, I can’t quite decipher. That part seems to be general fear-mongering about a secretive division of the Ministry.”

Tom rolled his eyes and sipped his wine. “I think we can handle this. If this is the best Malfoy and his friends can do, we should be able to deal with it. The Americans are balking—Violet Parsons does not want her Aurors who supported us in Russia questioned by mine—but I think they will come around.”

“They are fortunate that the blood movement has not targeted them,” she said tartly. “If Parsons has any political sense, she will allow her people to cooperate.”

He nodded. “Parsons will see reason. I’m more concerned about the effect that article could have on the Isolationists. I don’t _think_ they will adopt those views as a whole… but it’s a problem if they do. Of course, if they let themselves be sullied with this filth attacking Aurors, our party might get flooded with Isolationists ashamed to be associated with it, and that would benefit that social-climbing prat Leach. I need the support of a few of them. I do _not_ want them taking over _my_ party.”

Hermione considered this. For her part, she did not particularly care if the blood-purist party was discredited… but Tom was probably right that longtime Isolationists who did not support the attack on the Aurors would simply shelter under the Wizarding Nationalist banner and not change their views one jot. “Orion Black is supposedly the head of that party,” she said. “He should rein this in.”

“He supports the Aurors and their investigation,” Tom agreed. “He needs to purge the Wizengamot members who don’t. If they occupy family seats, they need to be removed in favor of relatives who aren’t seditionists. I will recommend this to him.” Tom drained his wineglass. His handsome face was hard and confident.

Hermione suppressed a wince at his use of the word “seditionists” and his eagerness to direct an opposition leader who he knew was afraid of him. For all of his changes over the years, he was still, at the core, a would-be autocrat. “Yes, do that,” she urged, swallowing her unease. “It’s Black’s job to control his party.”

“It certainly isn’t _mine,”_ he said. He finished his food and gazed at her, fingering the rim of his empty wineglass. A smug smile appeared on his face. “Is there anything else about politics that we should discuss?”

Hermione gazed back at him, suddenly very aware of the fact that his necktie was not perfectly taut. It had loosened slightly during the day and hung away from his collar by a finger’s width. “Not that I can think of,” she replied.

He placed his arms on the table and leaned forward. “Good. I didn’t want this evening _only_ to be about discussing work.” He studied her face. “It has been a while since we made an ‘occasion’ out of our… marital activities.”

Hermione flushed deep pink and stared wide-eyed at him. “We do it at least twice a week! What do you mean by ‘an occasion’?”

“Twice a week we collapse into bed and manage to have a quick tryst before we fall asleep from exhaustion,” he said. “And don’t mistake me; I’m _quite_ glad of that, but it’s not an occasion.”

Hermione glanced at the curtain. “Is that still—?”

“My spell is still up, yes. This is classified too, of course,” he drawled, smirking. “I don’t want anyone to hear about how you and I need to go home and make a special _occasion_ of lovemaking.” He tapped his fingers on the table. “You were looking at my tie. Maybe that should be part of it. I know how much you like that.”

She stared at him, trying to banish the heat from her face. They were still in public, even if the curtain shielded them. They would have to pass through the crowd of customers to return home. Amused, Tom glanced at her empty water glass. “It might help to refill that,” he said, still grinning. Hermione glowered, well aware of how much he was enjoying her reaction, but nonetheless cast the spell to fill the glass with icy water.

* * *

When they Apparated home, as soon as they were inside the house and the door was safely locked behind them, Tom turned to Hermione in the hallway and wrapped one arm around her waist, drawing her close to him. He leaned in, placing an open-mouth kiss on the side of her face near her jawline.

“Despite our talk tonight, _some_ conspirators are quite all right,” he murmured. He slipped the tip of his tongue out and lightly licked the sensitive spot right between her jaw and her earlobe. “I’ll check on Virgil and Cynthia. Be ready.” He nipped her earlobe and then pulled back, regarding her with a wicked smirk for a moment before sweeping upstairs to see to the children. Hermione stood in the front hall for a few seconds, breathing deeply as her thoughts whirled with images of what she knew would soon happen. She was rather looking forward to it. He had been right that their intimacies were generally not “special occasions.” Of course, that made the times that were—like tonight—even more anticipated. A smile formed on her face as she went upstairs to their bedroom.

When he entered the room, she had stripped off her heavier winter clothes and was lounging comfortably on the bed in her nightgown, the creamy skin of her arms visible to him through the filmy translucent sleeves. She smiled at him as seductively as she knew how—and after eighteen years, she knew very well indeed what stirred his blood. He stared at her for a moment before striding across the room, kicking off his shoes and shedding his long coat in the process, and mounting the bed at once, the already loose knot in his green necktie coming untied in his dexterous fingers.

“Give me your wrists, my dear,” he murmured, lifting up the hem of her nightgown.

He certainly was not wasting time, she thought as she complied. There were some nights when they played this game that she resisted, because that was what the game seemed to demand that night—but tonight was not one of those nights. She closed her eyes as the silken fabric wound around her wrists, the sensation somehow heightened by the sudden lack of visual sensory input. Tom tied the two ends of the necktie, and Hermione felt the mattress shift as he climbed atop her.

Even with her eyes closed, she knew he was hovering above her, his legs splayed on either side of hers. Her eyes snapped open when he planted an intense, wet, possessive kiss on her neck, and then proceeded to move down her body, leaving kisses on her collarbone, her breasts—he pulled the bodice of her nightgown down, revealing them to his greedy dark eyes—

“Hermione,” he murmured against her stomach, “darling… I don’t remember if I have said this lately… but… I love you.” He lifted the filmy skirt of her nightgown and kissed her right on the hemline of her knickers, a tease of more to come very soon.

An involuntary cry escaped her mouth at that. He _had_ said the words many times, and she knew that he felt it whether he said it or not, but most of the time it was _after_ their intimacies, when they were both basking in the vulnerable and uninhibited moments right after their release. For him to say it with full consciousness, full control—

She squirmed on the bed, suddenly feeling a flood of dampness in her knickers. “I love you too,” she said, “and I want you. Now. Please,” she added as he gazed at her challengingly, perfect black eyebrows raised in mock affront at her demands of him.

He trailed a single finger over the hemline of her knickers, making her shudder beneath him as he studied her with amusement and lust in his face. “Well,” he drawled, “I _was_ going to give you what you want.”

“‘Was’? Please, Tom.”

The hand that was already tormenting her slipped between her legs, now tracing the hemlines circling her legs. She twitched again, groaning when his fingers passed over the heated mound and the damp spot in between her legs.

“I suppose that if you want me _this_ much, I had better oblige,” he murmured, his mouth so close to her arousal that she could feel his breath.

“Yes,” she gasped, “you _had_ better.”

He gave her a wicked look, taking great pleasure in the pleading visible in her honey-brown eyes, as he removed the undergarment and descended on her womanhood, hot and wet and more than ready for him.

Hermione’s eyes fluttered closed again as his tongue and fingers plundered her core with expert dexterity that came of years of practice and total dedication to each other. For Tom, it was a matter of personal pride to know _exactly_ what to do to bring her to sublime bliss—when to tease her with his tongue, when to plunge his long fingers deep into her heat, when to pull away completely to leave her wanting more.

Besides, he knew that this would _never_ be one-sided. He would always have his pleasure as well, and it would be that much sweeter and more satisfying to have it after bringing her _so close—_

He pulled away suddenly, withdrawing his fingers from her cunt, leaving one torturous kiss on her womanhood before drawing back to gaze at her once again. One side of his mouth edged upward in a lopsided smirk.

“Tom, that’s cruel,” she protested, still trembling from being brought so close to climax and then left hanging.

“I would never be cruel to you,” he replied, still smirking. “I _will_ make you come, my dear—but, as you can see, I have needs too.” Impulsively he surged against her lower abdomen, pressing his erection against her skin through his clothes. “But there is a problem. And you are going to watch me as I _resolve_ this issue,” he snarled, though there was no anger in his words. He was already unbuttoning his white shirt as he spoke.

Hermione watched with eager, almost audacious lust as he stripped off the shirt, unbuckled his belt, and pulled off his trousers and underwear with them. Once he was completely naked, he gazed at her with unabashed desire, hovering over her with need written in every gleam—perfectly white, no hint of red—of his eyes.

He did not waste any time. She could barely process the sight of him staring at her with the undiminished obsession of their teen years and the passionate love of their maturity before he surged forward, filling her completely. Although her hands were still bound, she reached for him, finding some measure of purchase by encircling his head with her tied wrists. Her fingers found their way to the edges of his soft hair. A sound that was half-groan, half-cry escaped his mouth at her touch even as he moved inside her.

He gripped her hips to steady himself as he moved, leaning forward and placing a kiss on her shoulders that was partly a nip of his teeth and would certainly leave a mark. Somehow, that thought did not bother her, and the idea of removing it with magic did not appeal at all. They belonged to each other, after all. She rose up slightly from the mattress as he plunged deeply into her, shuddering in pleasure at the sensation that was somehow heightened by her own movement. Her upward shift was just enough to return the favor. She leaned in and nipped at the spot where his neck met his torso, provoking a groan of pleasure—or protest?—or both from him.

He pushed her back down, his grip on her hips tight and firm. A heavy, deep breath escaped his chest as he gazed intensely at her. His black hair, usually perfectly combed, was mussed and unkempt now. He looked as if he wanted to say something to further tease her, but coherent speech was no longer possible. Hermione gazed back at him, also breathing heavily, close, _so_ close to her climax—

He lifted one hand from her hips and pressed against her clit. The sensation, the dual pressure, sent her over the edge. A gasp left her lips. She reached with her arms, which were still bound. He seemed, somehow, to realize that she needed to dissipate her release and murmured a spell under his breath that wandlessly untied the knot and unwound the silk tie from her wrists. Barely stopping to think, not even needing to, she grabbed handfuls of his hair and cried out, shaking and trembling, clenching his length tightly as he had his own release in her.

Neither of them was quite sure how much time elapsed before they became fully in control of their bodies once again. After some indeterminate number of minutes, Tom became aware that he was lying on top of Hermione, clutching her sides, his head nestled between her neck and her shoulder. “Happy Valentine’s Day, my beloved fellow conspirator,” he murmured.

She smiled, laughed, and kissed the top of his head as she held him close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nobby Leach is a figure from Pottermore. He was mired in scandals and possibly framed by Abraxas Malfoy for one that got him removed as Minister. Here I’ve made him far less hapless and potentially dodgy. I suspect that in the Pottermore timeline, he was chosen as Minister because people wanted to make a statement, without considering whether he was a competent politician. In canon, there are two sides and both are, in my view, radical: awful retrograde blood purists, and “progressives” who are for blood-status equality but who also support questionable causes like dubiously consensual human-giant and human-veela “relationships,” few restrictions on werewolves in an era before Wolfsbane Potion, and increased Muggle contact _during the Cold War and the age of terrorism._ (You’ve probably suspected for a long time that this is not just AU Tom’s view of his rivals, but is also my view of the two sides in canon Potterverse politics. I’ll confirm it: It is.) However, in this AU, Tom has carved out a third side, a middle ground that appeals to many, so Leach must be cannier to advance.
> 
> Despite his Dark Magic fixation and power-hungry tendencies in politics, Tom has really come a long way from his early self in _Choosing Grey_. He can say The Words to Hermione and has become a good parent. :)


	33. Operation Dark Sunset, Part I:  Bad Intentions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Aurors’ investigation of wizarding organized crime is continuing along, but when a foreign agent attempts to assassinate Tom, circumstances make it impossible to add that to the Aurors’ ongoing work. Hermione and Tom must solve this one on their own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey hey! I am resurrecting this story again because of a plot bunny that I need to write. This is probably going to be a two-part arc and a followup chapter that relates somewhat to what happens in this arc but has its own plot (and will therefore have its own name, rather than “Part III”).
> 
> How could this Tom _actually_ be assassinated, you may ask? Read on.

_Late December 1963._

Tom Riddle, Minister for Magic, nodded loftily to his employees as he departed the Ministry. Ordinarily he would want to mingle, but he had important business tonight. Madeline was home from Hogwarts for the holidays as of today, and he was going to have a family dinner—with _all_ the family.

“Minister,” muttered a male voice nearby.

Tom glanced up, hoping that this was not an emergency. His dark eyes met the eyes of a wizard whom he vaguely recognized. It was someone from… not Crouch’s department, but Griffith Diggory’s, Tom was reasonably sure…. _Yes,_ he remembered, _it’s Diggory’s new deputy. Rockwood? Rookwood. That’s the name._

“Rookwood,” Tom said in curt acknowledgment. He certainly was not going to postpone his plans at the behest of a departmental deputy. If Diggory himself had something important to say, that was one thing, but Tom was not going to let underlings get inflated heads about their claims on the Minister’s personal time, because they had no such claims.

“Minister—”

“Rookwood, I have a date with my family. Did Diggory send you to tell me something?” Tom’s voice verged on a snarl. “If he did, you can take word back to him that I will hear it later.”

Rookwood was taken aback for a moment. “I just wanted to wish you a nice evening, Minister,” he said apologetically. “That was all.”

Tom momentarily felt guilty. He supposed he shouldn’t have assumed the worst… but as Minister, he had _so_ many people wanting things of him, even when most office workers were off work and he preferred to spend time with Hermione and the children. He nodded quickly to Rookwood. “Thank you, then. You as well.” His words remained brisk, but he prided himself that he had removed the impatient sneer from his voice, at least.

He left the Ministry building by Apparition and landed at the doorstep of his home. Hermione had sent him word through the Floo that she had got off work and picked up Madeline from Hogwarts. He knew that she was more than capable of Side-Along Apparating all three of the children to the restaurant, but he considered it ungentlemanly to leave that task entirely to her and arrive separately from his family.

Tom accepted Hermione’s greeting kiss with a faint hint of a smile. He knew that _she_ knew what his subtle markers of affection meant. He went into the sitting room and gazed upon his family. Madeline was slumped on the sofa, staring ahead glassily, looking bored like the teenager she was as of October. However, she leapt up at the sight of her father, grey eyes coming to life. At the table on the other side of the room, Virgil set down the book he was reading and smiled at his father. In that moment, Tom was stunned at how much of himself he saw in his scholarly son. His elder two children had inherited his black hair, and Virgil had also inherited his dark eyes.

A jubilant shriek broke the silence as his youngest child, Cynthia, bounded up from behind a chair, her brown curls—just like Hermione’s—bouncing behind her. “Did you see me?” she exclaimed. “I was hiding!”

Tom feigned surprise. “I didn’t see you at all!”

She beamed. Hermione gave him an indulgent grin, pleased that he had played along. “Let’s give Dad a few minutes to get ready,” she urged them.

Tom did not require that much time. He retreated to the master bedroom to comb his hair, wash his face, and brush off his clothes. He passed into his home office to drop his briefcase, opening it on his desk and taking some of the items out. Instinctively, he picked up the small blue leatherbound diary that tingled and buzzed with the powerful magic that could only come from—

_I should not have this tonight._

Tom did not know where the sudden dark, foreboding thought came from. The closest to danger that the book had ever come—after those days in 1945 when the Elder Wand manipulated him into taking it into the Black townhouse—was when MACUSA had tried to perform a full magical scan on him in New York. He’d had no such bad feeling about _that._

Tom was a wizard, however, and he decided not to question his magical intuition. _In all probability, I’ll never know why I had that foreboding,_ he thought, _because the action I’m about to take will prevent the danger from materializing._ He opened his desk drawer, shoved the Horcrux to the very back, closed it, and locked it tightly. He checked the window—even though he knew the entire house was warded—and locked the door behind him for good measure before joining his family.

* * *

Dinner passed pleasantly. Madeline had recovered from her sullenness and chatted animatedly about the last Quidditch game at Hogwarts, her exams, the Christmas party, her friends—and her new enemy, Bellatrix Black, a first year.

“She’s _horrid,”_ Madeline said in a hushed voice. “She sat on the stool at her Sorting for so long, and then the Hat finally put her in Slytherin House, but I think it wanted to put her somewhere else! It just… _spat_ the name, as though it were angry. I think she told it to put her here because all her family has been here. And even though she’s just a first year, and _I’m_ a _second,_ and I can fly a broom so much better than she can and make better grades too, she’s been an utter _brat_ to me. You would not believe the things she says about our family!”

“Oh, I would,” Hermione said darkly. She glowered at her plate. She had always known that this was inevitable, and that she should offer the same grace to her other former adversaries from another world that she did to her husband. They were different people, after all. However, Bellatrix was bullying her _daughter—_ or trying to bully. Hermione knew that Madeline could hold her own, both verbally and magically.

 _She is a twelve-year-old girl,_ Hermione told herself. _She is twelve and Madeline is thirteen. It’s a teenage girl rivalry. No Cruciatus Curse, no knife carving, no murder. They are schoolgirls who dislike each other._

Tom understood what Hermione was thinking. He squeezed her thigh under the table, giving her a meaningful look and another subtle smile.

Tom and Hermione observed, as they ate, that the bond between Virgil and Cynthia seemed to have strengthened with Madeline’s attendance at Hogwarts—and that Madeline was comfortable in her independence rather than attempting to assert her “big sister rights” over Virgil when she was home. Virgil had needed the space to develop more assertiveness himself, and even though she was the youngest, Cynthia’s own personality was such that she certainly did not suffer from Virgil’s “budding prefect” example. It was good for all of them, and their parents were glad to see it.

* * *

The Riddles finished eating and gathered up their possessions to return home. As they were leaving the restaurant and just entering the darkened street, Tom thought he saw something in the shadows.

 _They shouldn’t be here,_ that same voice that had warned him against bringing the diary told him. “Hermione,” he whispered, trying not to alarm the children, “take them home— _now._ Bypass the entrance. Apparate _inside._ There is something I need to check out. I don’t want them here.”

Hermione was startled. She gazed back at him, warm brown eyes wide, fear and alarm radiating out of them.

“Hermione, _please.”_

Something in his voice told her that she had better do as he asked this once. With a look of worry for him, she gathered the children close and Disapparated on the spot.

Tom snarled quietly to himself and drew his wand, turning into the alleyway beside the restaurant where he had seen the shadowy movement. He barely had time to react before a heavy bulk rushed and slammed him, knocking him to the ground.

Tom reached for his wand, but before he could cast a spell, a sharp, ferocious pain pierced his right shoulder, momentarily shocking his arm from the injury and what felt like a poison. He cursed himself inwardly as he felt his own blood pour from the wound. _So prepared for a magical attack, but I did not even think about a plain, physical, Muggle-style ambush!_

The attacker began to rummage through Tom’s coat pockets, growling and cursing in a foreign language that Tom recognized as perhaps Russian. _Russian!_ he thought in dismay. _The Aurors’ investigation of Malfoy and the Rods! They sent someone to assassinate me!_

The attacker drew his wand and pointed it squarely at Tom’s nose. “Where is the book?” he sneered in a heavy accent.

 _Book?_ An inescapable conclusion shot through Tom’s mind at that word, connected to the premonition he’d had at home, but _how_ it could be, he could not imagine.

However, the assassin had underestimated Tom’s ambidexterity. With his left hand, he flicked his wand, sending the would-be assassin backward. He tumbled on his back, his wand clattering away uselessly. Tom picked it up and instantly cast a hex to bind the wizard in chains.

“You are under arrest for attempted murder, attempted assassination of a head of government, sedition, and we’ll see what else sticks,” Tom growled, pointing his wand at the supine man. His right shoulder still throbbed, but oddly, the pain was lessening. Why would the assassin not have used a lethal poison….

 _Unless he was told not to? Because he was also told to retrieve “the book,” and his principal knows what “the book” is?_ At that rather horrible thought, Tom cast a Stupefy on the man. He rather wanted to kill this scum, but clearly, something worse was afoot. He had to keep this wizard alive for questioning.

 _Questioning…._ In a fraction of a second, Tom decided _not_ to notify Caspar Crouch or Chief Auror Moody for the initial questioning… or Auror Abbott, who led the ongoing investigation into Florian Rosier, Abraxas Malfoy, and the Russian blood-purist wizarding crime family that they suspected funded them—Rodoslovnaya, often called “the Rods” in English-speaking countries. This was almost certainly a “hit” from that group—or an attempt—but Tom did not want this… person… talking too freely to Crouch, Moody, or Abbott about what he apparently knew about Tom. Tom had the legal authority to arrest and perform interrogations himself, in any case.

“Who are you?” he snarled at the man.

The wizard spat on the ground.

“All right,” Tom said. “We’ll see if you are more talkative in Ministry custody.” He withdrew the general-purpose antidote he kept with him at all times, quaffed it, and healed the wound and rips in his clothing, leaving no indication that the blade had pierced his flesh. The poison responded to the antidote, Tom noted, but he was too worried about what that implied to feel contempt over the fact. Any assassin that would use a non-lethal poison had not intended the poison to kill anyway.

* * *

“Well?” Tom snarled as he sent another bruising curse at the assassin. He had sent word to Hermione of what had happened, but the law prohibited her, as an outsider to the Ministry, from participating in an official interrogation of a criminal. Tom had taken the assassin to a holding cell in the bowels of the Ministry, where he now sat in a chair, chained and unable to escape.

The Russian wizard winced and grimaced. “My name is Borzakov,” he said. “I was hired by the boss for important job. What do you want to know, Minister?”

“Your ‘boss,’” Tom drawled. “Who is _that?_ Do you work for the criminal organization called Rodoslovnaya?”

“Of course.” He paused, then added, “Is not criminal organization. Purity of blood is critically important.”

“It is a criminal organization according to _Britain,_ and that is where you committed your crimes. Where is your home?” Tom glared into the man’s eyes, using Legilimency on him. “And know that I can tell if you are lying.”

“Moscow.”

It was true, Tom determined. “Interestingly enough, Borzakov, your employer is a criminal organization according to the legitimate Russian wizarding government too.”

“It is not legitimate government. _You_ put Karkaroff out of office! You interfered with Russian government, so we interfere with yours.”

Tom had long suspected that Igor Karkaroff had been intimately involved with the crime family—indeed, that it had funded him and placed him in his former position, as it had attempted to do with Abraxas Malfoy through its British affiliate, and also meant to do for like-minded blood-purists in France and Germany, with Florian Rosier’s help. He was disgusted that the Russian patriots that he and Grindelwald—ah, no, _Baginski—_ had aided had not executed Karkaroff five years ago. He certainly would have. But they had not, and now, his Ministry’s intelligence sources told him that the crime family had sprung Karkaroff from the new government’s ill-secured prison and welcomed him into its ranks as a direct employee.

As he thought about Karkaroff, he realized through Legilimency that this particular assassin possibly had _not_ been told very much about his “hit.” Karkaroff was his direct boss—Karkaroff was the one who had given him the orders—but Tom was unable to determine if Borzakov knew much about the reasons for his very specific and peculiar orders. Time to try asking him directly, then, and seeing what thoughts passed through his mind as he answered the questions.

“Igor Karkaroff is your boss,” Tom stated, noting with pleasure that Borzakov’s eyes widened in surprise—and assent. The assent was on the surface of the assassin’s thoughts, at least. That was good. It meant that anything else would also be there for Tom to pick up as he chose. This man was no Occlumens.

“Karkaroff ordered you to get a book from me,” Tom continued, _“not_ to use the Killing Curse in your attack, and apparently to use a poison on me that I could easily counter with a common antidote. Why is that?”

“I do not know,” said Borzakov. “Karkaroff told me to get this book. It is a book of strong magic and personal significance to Minister Riddle, Karkaroff said.”

Tom was utterly horrified. Karkaroff knew—somehow, he _knew!_ He did not just know that Tom _had_ a Horcrux, but somehow, he also knew what it was.

 _Calm yourself,_ Tom urged himself. _It may not be as bad as it appears. He may just have word from… someone… that I have a book that I tote around a lot. He could think that it’s important to me without knowing why. He might think it is important for intelligence purposes. A personal diary of the Minister would be. This may not be what it looks like._

“Did Karkaroff say why he gave this order?” Tom asked the assassin.

Borzakov shook his head. “He said to retrieve this book and bring to him.”

Dissatisfied, Tom moved on. “Why did he tell you to use _that_ specific poison, then?”

“He ordered me to keep you alive.”

Tom closed his eyes momentarily. _Intelligence purposes, indeed.  He knows. How can he_ know? _He saw me revive myself after the Killing Curse in St. Petersburg, yes, but I wiped his memory of that, and he still would have no way of knowing what the item is._

 _Unless there is a spy somewhere. But… what spy could know_ that? _No one knows that except Hermione. Grindelwald knows I have one… he was on that same mission… but I swore him under the Unbreakable Vow. If he betrayed me, he died for it… and he never learned what the Horcrux is. How could this be? This simply does not make sense. It_ must _be an intelligence operation. Someone, some spy, has seen me carrying it around, and deduced that it is a personal diary. That’s all that this is._

“Did he say why?” Tom pressed.

“He said he must have the book before killing you.”

 _Oh, my God._ Tom closed his eyes again. The last flame of hope flickered and died.

Tom rallied his courage and strength as well as he could. “Karkaroff does not know of what he speaks,” he said with cold disdain. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Karkaroff knows more of magic than I do,” said the wretched Borzakov. “I trust him. He called it ‘Operation Dark Sunset,’ and I understand what that means. He told me that you are a Dark wizard.”

“How does he know that?”

“It is commonly known,” Borzakov scoffed. “You admitted to it in the British press.”

Tom grimaced; it was true enough. There had been no serious repercussions domestically for that admission, but Tom had—myopically—only considered the political sphere for that. He had not considered a risk to his life.

“Does Karkaroff have a spy in Britain?”

“I have no idea.”

To his dismay, Tom realized that the assassin was telling the truth about that too. This was a very professional job, with a rather stupid and ignorant hitman who knew as little as possible in case this exact scenario—the assassin’s capture by his intended target—unfolded. Much to his loathing, Tom had to give the Russian blood-purity mob credit. With a final scowl, he flicked his wand at the unfortunate Borzakov, sending the man into a deep stupor. Black robes flapping behind him, he strode from the dais and opened the soundproof doors, where a team of Aurors waited to take the prisoner to Azkaban.

* * *

Hermione fussed over Tom after he finally came home, very late indeed, and explained the full details of what had happened after she had taken the children home. “It never ends!” she exclaimed as he drank the spiked peppermint tea she had given him. “I understand why you did not tell me more, but Tom, this is _incredibly_ dangerous!”

He sipped the tea and set the cup down. “You don’t say. I am just glad that I had that premonition.”

She sighed and sank down in the chair next to him in their sitting room. “Tom,” she said, placing a hand gently on his shoulder, “we have to get to the bottom of this.”

“Yes,” he agreed, “and _we_ must do it, indeed. This is certainly related to the topic of the Aurors’ investigation, but they cannot take this part, for obvious reasons. We have to solve it ourselves.” He took another sip.

Hermione rubbed her forehead. Even after nineteen years, she still did not approve of what Tom had done that dark night in 1945, but it was no longer as simple as it had been then. The diary had saved his life twice. She still had him, and the children still had their father, because it had protected his life in 1958 against Dolohov’s Killing Curse. And if either of them had died in the confrontation at the Black family home in 1945, the survivor would not have had a family at all. No, it was not nearly as simple as it had been that night many years ago. She hoped that someday, he… _no,_ Hermione thought, shoving that line of thinking aside. She was not going to brood on it. Attempting to reunite the pieces might well kill him, and he was too young to die. And in any case, it existed _now._ It needed to be protected, which meant that they had to figure out how the secret had escaped.

“We need to make a list,” Hermione said. “A list of anyone who _ever_ knew that you had a Horcrux… even if you think that you protected the secret later,” she said as he opened his mouth to object.

“That’s very few people,” Tom said. “Dumbledore, of course.” He scowled. “As much as I would like to have something on him, this was not his doing.”

Hermione agreed. “Dumbledore would not pass sensitive information to the Russian blood-supremacist crime family.” She paused, considering the role that Severus Snape had played in the Death Eaters in the alternate timeline, before dismissing that doubt at once. Dumbledore had always made certain that Snape did not tell the Death Eaters anything truly critical.

“And he does not know what the item is, either,” Tom said. “It wasn’t Dumbledore.” He considered. “Grindelwald— _Baginski—_ knows that I have one as well, but I checked tonight with him. He is alive, which means that he didn’t tell anyone, and he has not turned his coat. He wouldn’t betray an ally to the wizarding Russian mob. This was not his doing either.”

They thought more on the matter. Finally Hermione spoke up. “In 1945… the big duel at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. I know that we used a Memory Charm on Arcturus Black, but they aren’t infallible. Sometimes people recover bits and pieces of memory with time.”

Tom glowered at the table. “That applies to Slughorn as well, you know. I don’t remember… was Black out when I revived myself from old Lestrange’s Killing Curse? I think he was. Slughorn wasn’t, though. He saw it all—and we exchanged words about it, to boot. But,” he reflected, “Slughorn would be even less likely to tell anyone than Dumbledore. I am interested in the idea of Arcturus Black, though.” He leaned back in his chair. “He has been very retired for years. He turned over the headship of the family to Orion, who—to give the bloke credit—has not been that big of a thorn in my side. He has been a typical, ordinary political opposition leader since Abraxas Malfoy’s disgrace… and sometimes he has allied with me. If his wretched father has secretly remained active, passing intelligence to _Russian organized crime….”_ Tom trailed off darkly, the threat unspoken.

“You shouldn’t assume that without testing the hypothesis,” Hermione said. “It’s possible—I will grant that, Tom—but you should not assume it. And even if it proves true, you should not assume that Orion knew about it without evidence.”

Tom rubbed his forehead again. “You’re right,” he said abruptly. “I should look into it. But Hermione… you need to accept the fact that I may need to go abroad if this turns up nothing.”

Her face fell in dismay. “Tom—this could be just like the fight with Karkaroff and Dolohov, only worse, if you have no support. I should go, at least.”

He winced at her distress. “No, Hermione, you really shouldn’t. If the unthinkable happened, what would become of the children?”

She looked down at the table, unable to answer. It was too awful to contemplate.

“I will go only if none of our domestic leads produce anything,” he said. “And… we will check _all_ of them, just to be sure. But Hermione, this cannot wait too long. These people, whoever they are, know a lot of things that they should not. I need to know who they are, what they know, and _how_ they know it.” He finished the last of his tea and rose to give her a kiss.

* * *

The next morning, Hermione was even more determined to look into all the obvious possibilities before letting Tom hare off on a solo adventure in Russia that—all things considered—had a grave risk of going very badly for him. He _certainly_ would not bring the Horcrux with him if he ended up taking the trip, but if they captured him and discovered that he didn’t have it on him, they might do some sort of magic that rendered his body uninhabitable. _Or give him to a dementor,_ Hermione thought, with a chill of marrow-freezing horror at that idea. No, Tom did not need to take this trip. They had to solve this here, together, somehow.

Even if the assassin’s story was complete—it was certainly _true,_ as far as the man knew, but the question remained as to whether what he knew was accurate and complete—Karkaroff had learned of the identity of Tom’s Horcrux through some British source. He must have. Hermione just could not see how it could be otherwise. Like Arcturus Black, it was _possible_ that he had recovered some memories of the 1958 fight, just enough to make the deduction as to what Tom had done, but he would not have any way of knowing what the item was without outside help.

 _Why hasn’t whoever it is told the press?_ Hermione wondered. _They could destroy Tom in that way if they wanted. Why tell the Russian blood-supremacist mob if they just want Tom out of office?_ She followed that trail of thought for a while before arriving at a very unpleasant conclusion.

 _It’s because the person is a spy for the Rods,_ she thought. _For Rodoslovnaya,_ she corrected her thought. Hermione disliked the shortened name, which seemed vaguely silly-sounding to her, whereas the full, proper name meant “bloodline” in Russian—fittingly. _The person who told Karkaroff about the diary is a true believer. It is not just about getting Tom out of office. This is not a routine Wizengamot power play. The spy is not an ordinary Isolationist of Wizarding Britain. This was an attempt to assassinate the Minister for Magic, the specific Minister who first ordered the investigation of ties between Rodoslovnaya and prominent figures like Abraxas Malfoy. This is deadly serious, and that is why the person kept the information secret. And… now that the attempt has been made on Tom’s life, the spy definitely won’t come forward to the press. That would entail instantly outing himself as a spy now. Or herself, I suppose, but I bet anything it’s a wizard._ In Hermione’s experience observing these people, she had found them to be extremely sexist, even more so than the British blood purists.

In an adjacent room, Tom brooded as well. He was rather put out, to be honest. He had looked forward to spending time with his children. The holidays were nigh, but he had to devote family time to tracking down a despicable traitorous spy.

 _Arcturus Black first,_ he thought. _He is the most likely possibility. He actually handled the diary in 1945. Dumbledore has never seen it, nor has Grindelwald._ Tom studied his pocket watch. He was not going to waste any time with this. He had sent a letter to Orion this very morning, explaining that there had been an attempt on his life and that he wished to question—just question, he had assured Orion—Arcturus about his past ties to Abraxas Malfoy and other suspects in the plot. Orion had agreed quickly, perhaps because he was afraid of Tom, but that was all to the good if so. Even better, Orion was going to bring his father with him to the Riddles’ house, a clear indication that he acceded to Tom’s dominance. He was also going to bring his rather rowdy four-year-old son, Sirius, but Tom hoped that the boy might find a playmate in five-and-a-half-year-old Cynthia.

 _If you have come back from my past to trouble me again, Arcturus Black, you’ll wish you had not,_ Tom thought—though what he would do to the man if it turned out that he knew inconvenient secrets about Tom, he was not sure yet.

* * *

Arcturus Black was in his sixties, but like any wizard, he had aged very well indeed. Hermione and Tom had seen little of him over the years, since he was in a family-imposed seclusion, but it was obvious to them that the only major change to him had been additional grey in his hair. For that matter, Tom had a few silver hairs himself now. His son looked stunningly like him, just younger.

Sirius, Hermione noticed with a pang, also resembled his father and grandfather. He was a very good-looking child, and even at this very young age, Hermione could see signs of the man that she knew he would one day become. It was poignant and painful for all kinds of reasons… but at the same time, she knew that she was giving him the chance for a much better, much _longer_ life than he otherwise would have had.

Cynthia was about a year and a half older than Sirius, and she exhibited all the bossiness inherent in the age difference, but she was nonetheless glad to have a playmate approximately her own age. “Come with me, Sirius,” she said authoritatively, her curls bouncing. “I have two snakes, and I can talk to them. Really! Let me show you.”

The Riddles’ aged cat, Sable, eyed Sirius with mild interest before returning to his sleep. Grabbing the younger boy’s hand, Cynthia practically dragged him away to her magical terrarium.

Orion observed the play with a very mixed expression on his face, but he quickly cleared it at the sight of the glare that the Minister for Magic was giving him. “Minister Riddle,” he said respectfully. “And Mrs. Riddle. I have brought Father here, as you requested.”

The Riddles eyed their old adversary, who stared back at them in return, hostility in his face.

Hermione spoke up first. “Mr. Black,” she said to Arcturus, “we really have requested your presence here to ask you some questions. That’s all that it is. And as a show of our goodwill… why don’t we have the discussion in the parlor? There are drinks… tea and strong drink as well, if you prefer.”

Arcturus sneered. “If you have any proper firewhisky, I will take that.”

“We have Scotland’s best,” Tom assured him, showing the Blacks into the parlor. He flicked his wand at a cabinet as they sat down. The bottle and four glasses levitated across the room, the bottle opening itself and pouring the drink into the glasses.

“Well,” Tom said, once they all had their drinks, “I will get right to the point. An attempt was made on my life last night, as I was returning from a dinner at the Isle of Apples with my family.” He eyed the Blacks. “It was a very clever attempt, too—and there were some peculiarities about it. But I’m getting ahead of myself. I apprehended the assassin—obviously, since we are talking—and interrogated him at the Ministry. He is Russian, an employee of Rodoslovnaya, which—yes, Orion”—for Orion’s eyes were wide with alarm—“is the criminal organization that trafficks in illegal potions ingredients, endangered magical creatures, and which _had_ a child smuggling ring in Albania until my wife and I rooted that out.” He glared at his guests. “Florian Rosier and Abraxas Malfoy, among others, are subjects of an ongoing Auror investigation examining possible financial and political ties to this same organization, and a likely scheme to undermine and infiltrate wizarding governments. That returns us to the assassination attempt.”

Arcturus Black spoke up at once. “Minister Riddle.” It was obvious that the words curdled on his tongue, but he managed to get them out. “I have been out of politics for years. My son has handled all of that. Those were the terms of the agreement that reinstated the Black family to the Wizengamot, and I have not violated it.”

Tom studied him for a few seconds. His face twisted in disappointment; evidently this statement was largely true. Hermione grimaced inwardly. She _really_ did not want Tom to go abroad for this.

“Mr. Black,” he said, “that may be, but I still must ask you about something. You remember, of course, our—confrontation—at your house that day in 1945.”

Black scowled.

“When Slughorn, Rosier, and I arrived to retrieve Hermione, you took something from me: my diary. It—reacted strongly.”

“I remember that,” Black said, eyeing Tom. “What of it, Riddle? _Minister?”_ he corrected himself.

“Well, the assassin last night somehow knew of its existence. I must confess, I have continued to use it as a diary over the years, and it contains what I suppose a foreign crime lord would consider highly useful intelligence about the British Minister for Magic, since it has so many of my personal thoughts and recollections inside it.”

Hermione was impressed, in a cold way, that he still could lie so smoothly about this.

“And you think that the Russkies know of it because of me?” Black said indignantly. “Listen, Minister, I have had no contact with Malfoy in years, and certainly wouldn’t have any after the despicable things he did to his former wife… to say nothing of spying for a foreign country. If he did. Is this why you summoned me here?”

“Yes,” Tom said. His face was grim with disappointment; Black was telling the truth. “It was just a lead. I haven’t carried it about openly, you see, and it was baffling to me how Karkaroff’s organization could know of its existence. I had hoped that it would be an accidental disclosure in the past, rather than having to consider the possibility of a spy in Britain. I’m sorry to have troubled you,” he ended insincerely.

The two adult Blacks finished their firewhisky and set down their glasses. As Arcturus rose from his seat, he dropped the attaché case that he had brought. It popped open, revealing a set of handkerchiefs, a case of cigars, and a black leatherbound volume, which in turn fell open. It was a photograph album.

“Oh, dear,” Hermione said, reaching for it politely. She made to close the cover when one detail in the two facing photographs to which it had opened suddenly grabbed her attention. She stared at the pictures, hardly believing her eyes.

“What is it?” Arcturus Black said.

Tom looked over Hermione’s shoulder at the photographs. “Merlin,” he said, gazing at it. “I don’t believe it.” He glanced at the date that Black had written on the bottom of the pictures: 1953. Ten years ago, well before he had made the bargain with the family.

Tom gazed at the Blacks. “Thank you for coming,” he said. “We know all that we need to now.”


End file.
